A  DESPERATE  CHANCE 


A  STORY  OF  LAND  AND  SEA 

BY 

COMMANDER  J.D.J.KELLEY 


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A  DESPERATE  CHANCE 


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Joel  Chandler  Harris 
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William  Waldorf  Astor  .  Valentino:  An  Histc  mcal  Romance 

Arlo  Bates A  vVheel  of  Fire 

H.  H.  Boyesen Falconberg 

Mrs.  Burnett That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's 

.  Vagabondia:  a  Love  Story 
John  March,  Southerner 
Your  Money  or  Your  Life 
.The Circuit  Rider 
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.    Face  to  Face 
Judith:  A  Chronicle  of  Old  Virginia 
Free  Joe  and  Other  Sketches 
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Sevenoaks:  A  Story  of  To-Day 
The  Bay  Path:  A  Tale  of  Colonial  Life 
"  "        .       .  Arthur  Bonnicastle:  An  American  Story 

"  " Miss  Gilbert's  Career 

"  " Nicholas  Minturn 

Com'r  J.  D.  J.  Kelley A  Desperate  Chance 

G.  p.  Lathrop  ......       An  Echo  of  Passion 

Julia  Magruder Across  the  Chasm 

Brander  Matthews The  Last  Meeting 

Donald  G.  Mitchell Dream  Life 

"  "  ....       Reveries  of  a  Bachelor 

Howard  Pyle  Within  the  Capes 

"  Q  "  (A.  T.  Quiller-Couch)        .       .       .        The  Splendid  Spur 
"  •  "  ...       The  Delectable  Duchy 

R.  L.  Stevenson The;  Ebb-Tide 

"  "  Treasure  Island 

"  "  The  Wrong  Box 

F.  J.  Stimson  ' Guerndale 

Frank  R.  Stockton Rudder  Grange 

"  .     "         .....        The  Lady  or  the  Tiger 


A  DESPERATE   CHANCE 


A  STORY  OF  LAND  AND  SEA 


BY 

J.  D.  JERROLD   KELLEY 

COMMANDER,  U.  S.  N. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1899 


COPYRIGHT,    1886,   BY 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 


MANHATTAN  PREM 

474  W.  BROAOWAV 

NEW  YORK 


STACK 
ANNEX 

KJi8?J 


TO  MY  SON 

MORRELL    JERROLD    KELLEY 


CONTENTS. 


PAG> 

CHAPTER  I. 
Dalton's  Journal, i 

CHAPTER  II. 
Rue  St.  Pierre, 21 

CHAPTER  III. 
The  Colonel's  Story, 37 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Isabel, 59 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  Queer  Lot, 75 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Gibraltar, 106 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Halcyon  Ahoy! 125 

CHAPTER  VIIL 

Homeward  Bound, 144 

vii 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  Dark  Night, 167 

CHAPTER  X. 
STotrr  Hearts, 198 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Dawn, 216 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Daylight, 225 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

From  the  journal  of  John 
Brewerton  Dalton,  a 
Surgeon  in  the  United 
States  Navy. 


Flagship  Columbia, 
OflF  Toulon,  France,  ^th  March,  iSjg. 

THE  band  of  the  Infanterie  de  Marine  had 
just  finished  the  programme  of  the  evening, 
and  the  soldiers  were  removing  the  music  stands 
and  portable  lights  from  the  Square,  when  I  saw 
coming  toward  me  the  woman  who  had  been 
watching  us  from  a  corner  of  the  Place  d'armes. 
She  moved  irresolutely,  and  as  the  crowd  swept 
noisily  into  a  narrow  street,  I  lost  sight  of  her 
from  my  seat  in  front  of  the  Restaurant  Jean 
Bart,  where  I  had  been  dining  with  Hippolyte 
Delmonte,  the  senior  medical  officer  of  the  con- 
vict station. 

I  thought  no  more  of  her,  after  this,  as  my 

X 


2  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

mind  was  already  disturbed  by  an  incident  which 
had  interrupted  our  dinner.  For  some  days 
Delmonte  and  I  had  been  deeply  interested  in  a 
convict  who  was  the  only  Englishman  then  under- 
going punishment,  and  as  we  were  taking  our 
coffee,  news  had  come  of  his  attempted  suicide. 
The  man  had  been  sent  to  the  hospital  soon  after 
his  arrival  in  Toulon,  and  from  the  beginning  had, 
under  adverse  circumstances,  displayed  so  many 
unexpected  qualities,  that  the  interest  and  sym- 
pathy of  the  physicians  were  excited  in  his 
favor.  I  had  spoken  to  him  several  times  offer- 
ing such  services  as  the  rules  permitted,  but 
he  had  always  answered  quietly,  never  com- 
plaining of  his  misery  nor  making  any  requests, 
until  my  last  visit  when  he  said : 

"Thank  you,  Doctor  Dalton,  there  is  one 
favor  which  I  can  ask,  because,  though  a  convict, 
I  am  not,  in  the  higher  sense,  nor  morally,  a 
criminal.  It  is  this.  Should  I  die  in  this  rat 
hole,  try  and  bury  me  where  God's  free  air  may 
come,  and  let  some  tender  English  prayer  be  said 
in  memory  of  what  I  have  been." 

He  was  so  much  a  mystery  to  both  of  us, 
that  we  were  again  discussing  the  probable  his- 
tory of  2008 — such  was  his  prison  individuality — 
when  an  orderly  approached  hurriedly  and  gave 
Delmonte  a  note. 


DAL  TON'S  JO URNAL.  3 

He  opened  it  leisurely,  but  in  a  moment  his 
face  filled  with  sorrow,  and  he  said : 

"  Hein,  Dalton !  our  mystery  will  be  unsolved 
forever,  if  not  revealed  within  an  hour.  Your 
countryman  is  dying." 

"  My  countryman  ?  "  I  asked,  with  a  nervous 
premonition  of  some  unknown  evil. 

"Yes!  Our  Englishman,  2008,  proves  to  be 
an  American  ;  he  has  taken  poison,  procured  no 
one  knows  how,  and  of  such  potency  that  he  can- 
not live ;  at  least  so  says  the  assistant  who  writes 
this — I  must  leave  you." 

"  Can  I  be  of  service  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Perhaps."  Then  he  added,  "At  what  time 
do  you  go  on  board  ship  ?  " 

"  In  the  eleven  o'clock  boat,  which  leaves  the 
inner  landing  by  the  police  ship." 

"And  until  that  hour  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  I  shall  stay  here  and  finish  my  cigar." 

"Well,  if  I  need  you,  I  shall  send  here  or  to 
the  landing  stage.  Is  your  aumonier — how  do 
you  call  him — ^your  chaplain — is  he  ashore  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  came  with  me,  before  sundown." 

"  Can  he  be  found  at  this  hour? — for  the  dying 
man  may  need  him.  A  poor  ending  this,  for  any 
one,  Dalton,  but  doubly  sad  for  such  as  our  con- 
vict, as  I  am  sure,  he  was  a  gentleman." 

Delmonte   walked    quickly    under   the   trees 


4  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

towards  the  avenue  leading  to  the  Arsenal  Gate, 
but  in  the  shadow,  where  the  street  makes  a  half 
turn  by  the  walls  of  the  Prefet's  garden,  the 
woman  I  had  noticed  before,  stopped  him  with  a 
nervous  entreaty.  He  bowed  courteously,  made 
some  reply  to  her  questioning  and,  calling  a 
passing  quarter-master  of  the  fleet,  pointed  me 
out ;  then,  with  another  salute,  he  hurried  upon 
his  errand  of  mercy. 

The  woman  hesitated,  drawing  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  and  I  lost  sight  of  her  in 
the  crowd  which  followed  the  band  and  its  escort. 

A  quiet  place  is  the  Place  d'armes  at  night, 
when  the  music  is  finished,  and  now  it  was  almost 
deserted  save  by  a  few  loungers  like  myself,  and 
by  the  sentries  whose  muskets  gleamed  in  the 
gaslight,  and  whose  measured  tread  awoke  dis- 
turbing echoes  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
official  residence.  Clouds  were  gathering  over- 
head, and  the  southerly  breeze  sighed  in  the  top- 
most branches  of  the  poplars. 

"Time  to  be  going,"  I  thought,  looking  at 
my  watch,  and  feeling  the  loneliness  of  the  place ; 
"and  yet  I  should  like  to  know  how  that  poor 
fellow  makes  his  struggle  for  life.  Dead,  per- 
haps, and  in  such  a  place.     Heaven  pity  him  !  " 

The  half  hour  struck  faintly  from  a  distant 
clock ;  a  great  bell  tolled  solemnly ;  there  was  a 


DAL  TON'S  JO URNAL.  5 

bugle-call  from  somewhere,  strange  too,  at  that 
hour;  and,  in  the  heart  of  the  town,  dogs  were 
baying;  from  the  harbor  came  the  quick  ringing 
of  five  bells  on  the  men-of-war,  and  the  hails  of 
the  watchful  sentries  punctuated  the  night  with  a 
sudden,  sharp  distinctness  which  made  oppres- 
sive the  silence  that  followed. 

I  tossed  off  the  last  of  the  demi-tasse,  puffed 
my  cigar  into  a  friendly  blaze,  and  arose  to  go, 
when  I  again  saw  the  woman  stealing  out  of  the 
gloom.  She  seemed  afraid  to  leave  a  shadow  on 
the  pavement  or  to  awake  an  echo  that  might 
reveal  her  hiding-place ;  for  she  walked,  not  in 
the  open  pathway,  but  cat-like  in  the  dusk  of 
the  angles ;  at  last  reaching  the  one  nearest  to 
me,  she  halted,  put  off  by  its  screen  from  the 
flooding  light  of  the  cafe. 

It  was  the  woman  I  had  seen  before  and  lost, 
and  who  was  now,  as  if  by  a  determined  effort, 
about  to  address  me.  I  saluted  her  courteously, 
placed  a  chair  where  the  shadow  of  a  tree  would 
in  some  degree  hide  her  from  the  passers-by,  and 
awaited  her  pleasure. 

In  a  low,  quick  voice,  that  was  hard  and 
metallic  with  suppressed  emotion,  and  in  perfect 
English,  she  said, 

"  Pardon  me.  Dr.  Dalton?  " 

"  At  your  service,  Madame,"  I  replied.     For  a 


6  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

second  I  had  hesitated  over  this  last  word,  but  I 
saw  she  was  not  in  that  debatable  land  where 
the  term  may  be  offensive  or  most  proper,  as  cir- 
cumstances demand. 

"Surgeon  in  the  American  Navy,  and  of  the 
Frigate  Columbia  ?  "  she  asked  me,  quickly. 

"  I  am  Dr.  Dalton,  a  surgeon  in  the  navy,  and 
attached  to  the  ship  you  have  named." 

"  Pardon  me  again.  But  " — and  here  she  paused 
for  a  moment  as  if  to  be  certain  of  her  phrase — 
"  I  doubted  the  correctness  of  my  information,  as 
you  are  not — like  these  others,  these  French — 
you  are  not  in  uniform." 

"  Dr.  Delmonte  informed  you  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Dr.  Delmonte  ?  "  she  repeated.  "Ah,  yes !  The 
officer  in  naval  uniform  who  left  your  table,  and 
who  is,  so  I  am  informed,  the  physician  of  the  Prison 
Hospital.     The  Bagne,  I  believe  it  is  called." 

"  Dr.  Delmonte,"  I  answered,  "is  chief-of-staff 
of  the  Bagne." 

She  drew  her  chair  out  of  the  shadow,  and 
after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  but  in  the  same 
low  voice  which  betrayed  little  of  the  misery  that 
must  have  been  crushing  her,  said : 

"  Oh,  sir !  I  am  your  countrywoman  and  friend- 
less. Can  you  not  aid  me  ?  I  arrived  but  an 
hour  since,  and  must  go  at  once  to  the  Hos- 
pital of  the  Convict  Station." 


DAL  TON'S  JO URNAL.  y 

So,  she  had  come  from  the  north,  as  the 
southern  trains  are  earlier  and  later.  Evidently 
no  gamester  this,  stranded  on  the  reefs  of  Monte 
Carlo.  I  waited,  as  she  watched  me  with  burning 
eyes,  and  replied,  quietly, — 

"  What  you  ask  is,  I  regret  to  say,  impossible." 

"  Impossible  ?  Oh,  do  not  say  that !  "  she 
interrupted,  with  eager  and  pitiful  entreaty. 

"  At  this  hour,"  I  added,  "  all  the  gates  are,  by 
regulations,  closed,  and  the  code  of  the  adminis- 
tration is  most  rigid." 

"  But,"  she  pleaded,  "  mercy  will  relax  that 
code,  pity  will  soften  that  administration.  Your 
companion,  Dr.  Delmonte,  said  the  same.  I  told 
him  of  my  necessity,  but  in  vain.  Then  I  begged 
as  a  helpless  foreigner,  an  American — and  here 
he  interrupted  me  and  declared  that  a  matter  of 
life  and  death  depended  upon  his  haste.  He  gave 
me  your  name  and  station,  and  pointed  you  out 
as  one  who  would  inform  me  what  his  necessities 
forbade.  Will  you  not  help  me  ?  "  she  entreated, 
tearfully ;  "  I  appeal  to  you  as  a  friendless  woman 
to  a  gentleman,  as  a  countrywoman  alone  in  a 
strange  land  to  her  countryman,  as  a  sufferer  to 
a  physician." 

She  paused,  overmastered  by  emotion,  and 
then  continued :  "  I  must  go  to  the  hospital,  and, 
all  else  failing,  by  your  aid." 


8  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

What  could  I  do  ?  Though  pitying  her  from 
my  heart,  I  knew  what  she  asked  was  impos- 
sible.    I  said  to  her : 

"  I  am,  in  this  matter,  powerless.  You  would 
have  more  right  to  ask  the  privilege  than  I,  for 
my  official  position  forbids.  To  enter  the  Dock 
Yard,  a  pass  from  the  Commandant  is  required, 
and  the  office  of  the  Rear-Admiral  has  been 
closed  for  many  hours.  I  regret  this  deeply,  but 
it  is  a  charity  to  tell  you.  Forgive  my  frankness 
and  cruelty,  but  I  must  repeat,  what  you  ask  is 
impossible." 

"  God  help  and  pity  me,  then !  "  she  cried,  and 
with  a  low  moan  like  that  of  a  hunted  animal, 
stricken  to  death  in  a  tangle  of  brush,  she  sank 
helpless  upon  the  chair. 

There  was  the  half-caught  strain  of  a  jolly 
song  from  a  distant  Brasserie,  echoed  by  a  chorus 
I  had  heard  in  the  Alcazar,  when  the  house  rose 
to  the  witcheries  of  the  latest  Parisian  success ; 
from  the  cafe  behind  me,  bubbled  the  riotous 
laughter  of  the  domino-players,  and  at  the 
instant,  a  woman  went  by,  swaying  unsteadily  on 
the  arm  of  a  tipsy  soldier,  who  made  a  silly  joke 
upon  the  environment. 

I  fancied  I  could  hear  the  rising  tide  lapping 
the  prison  walls,  and  the  echoes  of  the  breezes 
challenging,  in  their  idle  liberty,  the  men  who 


DAL  TON'S  JO  URNAL.  g 

tossed  in  dreamful  slumber  on  board  the  galley 
hulks  which  darkened  the  inner  harbor.  At 
that  time,  too,  the  sentry  at  the  Prefecture  came 
to  a  salute,  and  I  saw  the  gallant  old  Contre- 
Amiral  climbing  the  steps  of  the  grim  house 
which  represented  the  might  of  law  and  govern- 
ment. 

I  lifted  the  woman's  head,  called  to  the  waiter 
for  a  carafe  of  brandy,  and  dashing  it  with  a 
midshipman's  allowance  of  water,  forced  the 
draught  between  her  lips. 

She  revived  slowly,  and  as  if  in  pain.  "A 
stern,  determined  woman,  this,"  I  thought,  as  I 
looked  at  the  straight  brow,  the  clearly  defined 
angles  of  the  jaws,  and  the  thin  lips,  revealing 
teeth,  which  set  closely  above  a  sharply  chiselled 
chin.  "  A  woman  to  suffer,  and  in  silence ;  to 
work  in  the  shadow,  and  to  wait,  and,  at  the  end, 
to  grasp  success  only  as  a  step  to  some  forede- 
termined  victory  which  the  world  would  mark  as 
hopeless.  A  woman  potent  for  great  good,  or 
greater  evil,  an  individuality  which  no  opposition 
could  defashion  of  its  angles  and  elemental  lines." 

She  sipped  the  spirits,  and  looking  at  the 
clouded  sky  with  eyes  which  gleamed  above  the 
hollows  of  her  pale  cheeks,  demanded  in  a  voice 
weak  with  emotion, — 


lO 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"  Pardon  my  persistence ;  tell  me,  where  does 
this  Commandant  live  ?  " 

"  In  the  Arsenal,  and  at  this  hour  you  can  see 
him  only  by  appointment,  certified  by  pass  or 
countersign." 

"  Who  can  give  this  pass,  this  countersign  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  answer.  In  my  night  visits,  I  have 
been  always  accompanied  by  an  officer." 

"  Who,  then,  is  the  senior  officer  ?  Is  there  a 
political,  a  naval,  a  military  superior,  whose 
authority  is  paramount  ?  " 

"Always,"  I  answered,  with  some  lightness  in 
my  tone,     "  Yes,  the  Prefet — his  word  is  law." 

This  seemed  to  eliminate  one  factor  from  the 
problem  with  which  she  had  been  struggling,  for 
she  rose,  exultant,  transfigured  by  a  new  hope, 
and  cried,  joyously, 

"  Come,  let  us  go  to  him." 

In  this  woman's  hands  I  was  helpless,  and  I 
found  myself  reasoning,  that  the  Prefet,  though 
a  power  in  the  land,  was  not  the  Grand  Llama, 
nor  yet  the  awful  Mikado  ;  so  I  replied  : 

"  He  lives  opposite,  where  you  see  the  sentry, 
and  has  at  this  moment  returned.  As  you 
have  asked  me,  I  shall  go  with  you ;  but  how 
will  you  explain  this  desire  to  enter  the  hos- 
pital?" 

"  Come,  come,"  she  insisted,  nervously ;  "  let 


DAL  TON'S  JO URNAL.  j  j 

US  go.  My  need  is  great,  and  I  can  tell  all 
when  I  see  this  Mayor — this  Governor — is  it  ?  " 

"  Prefet." 

"  Thank  you,  this  Prefet.  At  present,"  she 
continued,  "  we  must  not  hesitate.  I  have  lost 
too  much  time  already  in  addressing  you,  but  I 
feared  the  crowded  square,  the  people  here  and 
around  the  tables — I  feared  your  generous 
dinner." 

We  crossed  the  dingy  old  Place,  and  as  I  was 
answering  the  hail  of  the  sentry,  I  heard  the 
man  who  had  waited  at  dinner  calling  loudly. 
He  ran  to  me  and  delivered  a  note  just  left  by  a 
messenger.  It  was  addressed  in  the  quaint, 
Galilean  scrawl  of  Delmonte,  and  I  read  this : 

"  My  Dear  Dalton  :  The  American  is  dying  and  there  is 
no  hope.  He  has  asked  to  see  you.  Can  you  come  at  once  ? 
Enclosed  is  a  pass  for  two,  in  case  the  ship's  priest  should  be 
with  you." 

I  struck  out  my  line  of  action  at  once.  I 
knew  the  chaplain  was  ashore,  philandering  the- 
ologically with  some  religious  American  stopping 
at  the  Croix  d'Or,  en  route  to  Barcelona,  so  I  sent 
him  a  line  to  await  further  instructions  at  the 
Arsenal  Gate. 

Turning  down  the  narrow  street  in  the  rear 
of  the  Prefecture,  the  woman  following,  I  said : 


12  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

"  At  the  risk  of  violating  a  sacred  confidence, 
I  can  take  you  to  the  hospital,  but  I  cannot 
promise  you  will  accomplish  anything." 

"  I  shall  not  fail,  if  you  will  take  me  there," 
she  replied,  in  a  tone  out  of  which  all  entreaty 
had  now  passed. 

"  I  rely  upon  your  discretion,"  I  continued ; 
"  and  I  hope  your  necessity,  of  which  I  ask  no 
explanation,  justifies  you  placing  me  in  this 
position." 

She  bowed  her  head,  declined  the  arm  I  felt 
bound  to  offer,  threw  a  heavy  veil  over  her  face, 
and,  without  further  words,  we  walked  down  the 
quiet  street  to  the  Dock  Yard, 

We  passed  the  challenging  sentries,  accom- 
panied by  the  Sergeant  of  the  Guard,  who  met 
us  where  we  were  first  halted,  and  going  through 
the  Arsenal  Gate,  after  the  moment's  delay  which 
the  viseing  of  our  passes  demanded,  turned  hur- 
riedly toward  the  avenue,  whereon  the  hospital 
is  situated. 

I  marked  how  noiselessly  the  woman  walked, 
and,  as  if  unconsciously,  how  she  sought  always 
the  shadow  of  the  walls  and  workshops.  An 
unvexed  quiet  lay  upon  the  place,  save  for  my 
footsteps  ringing  loudly  upon  the  pavement,  and 
evoking  echoes  which  followed  and  went  before. 
There  was  a  sense  of  space  about  us,  measure- 


DAL  TON'S  JO URNAL.  j  -> 

less,  seemingly,  as  the  skies,  and  as  with  eager 
feet  the  woman  gave  the  pace  which  led  me,  we 
seemed  to  be  isolated  in  a  deserted  land.  In  the 
many  turnings  where  buildings  uprose  with  sud- 
den unexpectedness,  uncanny  spirits  seemed  to 
be  lurking;  and  when,  after  a  time,  we  drew 
into  a  wider  common,  where  lights  were  rare 
and  the  pavement  ended,  my  strange  companion 
repelled  me  as  if  she  were  a  thing  of  evil  luring 
to  certain  woe.  She  walked  with  a  steadfast 
purpose  and  in  silence,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  left,  and,  as  if  by  intuition,  always 
toward  the  shining  lights  of  the  hospital.  When 
these  grew  clear,  she  raised  her  head,  and,  as 
her  hands  clasped  and  unclasped  each  other  ner- 
vously, she  appeared  to  be  preparing  for  some 
supreme  effort. 

We  were  admitted  to  the  ante-room,  and  I 
asked  her  to  wait  until  I  had  made  my  explana- 
tions. Learning  that  Delmonte  was  in  the  ward 
above,  I  mounted  the  stairs  quietly,  and,  opening 
a  swinging  door,  entered  the  long,  white  room. 
A  sad  place  at  anytime  is  this  refuge  of  the  sick, 
but  at  night  it  is  ghostly  and  drear  in  the  sub- 
dued hush  and  light,  though  ever  and  always  the 
only  haven  of  rest,  where  the  convicts  find  in  ill- 
ness, or  in  death,  a  relief  from  the  misery  of 
their  hopeless  lives. 


14 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


In  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  where  a  shaded 
lamp  burned  dimly,  knelt  a  priest,  bending  his 
white  head  to  the  lips  of  a  dying  man,  and  listen- 
ing to  that  awful  recital  of  repentant  guilt,  which 
must  be  doubly  filled  with  human  wickedness 
when  its  outcome  is  in  such  a  place  and  from 
such  a  penitent.  Nearer  the  door  a  nun  was 
soothing  the  fevered  cheeks  of  an  Algerian  con- 
vict, who  murmured  in  his  restless  slumber  odd 
bits  of  the  Koran — queer  sentences  of  hope  and 
fear  and  trust  which  had  slumbered  in  his  desert- 
steeped  soul,  as  the  half-remembered  memories 
of  old  home  songs  sleep  till  heard  alone  in  for- 
eign lands.  But  under  the  outstretched  arms  of 
an  ivory  crucifix  in  the  transept,  where  the  moon- 
light, streaming  through  an  unshaded  window, 
rested  on  the  crown  of  the  bowed  head  of  the 
Master,  was  a  bed  around  which  a  few  silent 
people  were  watching  the  man  I  had  come  to  see. 

2(X)8 !  What  more  did  we  know  of  him 
whose  name  in  childhood  had  run  the  rosary  of 
a  mother's  prayers ! — what  more  of  him  who  had 
been  a  father's  hope  and  tender  care !  Convict 
and  felon, — here  he  was  lying,  wan,  pallid,  and 
breathing  away  the  last  of  an  ill-spent  and  a 
self-immolated  life  ;  the  fair  face  which  the  South- 
ern sun  had  tanned  with  unpitying  beams,  looked 
more  homelike  in  its  pallor  than  ever  before; 


DAL  TON'S  JO URNAL,  j  q 

and  in  the  deep  brown  eyes  turned  so  hope- 
lessly to  mine  was  a  likeness  to  other  eyes  I  loved 
in  that  dear  Western  land  of  ours. 

Delmonte  drew  me  aside  and  said,  "  Nothing 
can  be  done ;  he  may  die  at  any  moment.  Is 
your  chaplain  here?" 

With  some  shame,  I  explained  the  liberty  I 
had  taken  with  his  official  permission,  and  gave 
my  reasons.  After  a  minute's  reflection,  his  face 
brightened  and  he  said, — 

"  It  is  a  violation  of  the  rules,  without  doubt ; 
but  humanity  must  not  be  crushed  by  the  wheels 
of  discipline.  I  will  assume  the  responsibility  and 
will  send  to  the  Gate  for  the  Chaplain,  who 
should  by  this  time  have  received  your  note." 
When  I  had  thanked  him  for  his  consideration, 
he  asked, 

"  The  lady  is  below  ?  Good  !  I  will  talk  to 
her.  Graviere,  my  assistant,  is  here, — you  know 
him  ?  "  As  he  turned  to  go  where  the  stricken 
woman  was  awaiting,  he  added,  "Ah,  Dalton,  a 
sad,  sad  affair  this  !  " 

The  dying  man  soon  recognized  me,  for  after 
looking  in  the  steadfast  manner  which  character- 
izes the  sick,  he  muttered,  feebly, 

"  Nearly  over,  doctor,  thank  God — nearly  over. 
Life  has  been  so  hard  with  me."  In  a  little 
while  he  whispered. 


1 6  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

"  Give  me  your  hand." 

I  reached  my  hand  out  to  him  and  to  his  mis- 
ery, and,  bending  down,  asked  him  to  make  his 
peace  with  God. 

"  Do  you  believe  God  will  forgive  such  as  I 
am  and  have  been,"  he  said,  in  trembling  tones, 
but  not  with  despair;  for,  almost  immediately, 
he  added,  "Ah,  yes;  I  think  so.  My  life  has 
been  so  sad,  and  so  weary,  that  He,  knowing  all, 
will  forgive  me." 

The  feeble  hand  slipped  from  mine  and  the 
fading  eyes  turned  to  where  the  image  of  the 
crucified  Saviour,  the  ever-present  symbol  of  these 
prayerful  ones  of  another  faith,  looked  down  from 
its  soft  nimbus  of  shimmering  moonlight, 

"He  knows,"  the  convict  murmured,  "He 
knows;"  and  the  blanched  lips  trembled  with  a 
scarcely  perceptible  motion  of  prayer ;  his  fingers 
played  nervously  upon  the  coverlid  and  then 
followed  spasms,  which  became  less  recurrent 
and  less  violent  as  the  poisoned  life  blood  yielded 
to  the  power  of  the  drug.  But  in  every  quiet 
interval  he  clasped  my  hand,  and  clinging  with 
his  soul  to  our  land  over  the  waste  of  waters,  he 
uttered  only  one  word — "  Home." 

Our  chaplain  entered,  and  the  rest  withdrew 
to  a  little  distance,  while  the  words  of  consolation 
taught  and  made  sacred  by  the  minister's  holy 


DAL  TON'S  JOURNAL.  j 7 

office,  were  said.  The  noise  of  this  entrance, 
subdued  though  it  was,  awoke  the  Arab,  who 
glared  at  us  with  a  scornful  smile  upon  his  lips ; 
but  as  the  lurid  eyes  of  the  criminal  from  the 
land  of  the  Kabyle  turned  to  the  nun,  who  was 
kneeling  at  the  bedside  of  the  American,  their 
wickedness  died,  and  into  their  depths  a  tender- 
ness crept,  as  the  rift  of  blue  sky  blesses  the 
brooding  waters  where  the  lightning  and  the 
storm  have  fretted. 

The  priest  came  nearer  and  fell  upon  his 
knees ;  and  over  all  was  the  hush  of  the  middle 
night,  the  awful  quiet  when  God  is  nearest,  and 
the  future  trembles  on  the  shores  of  the  present, 
as  the  dawn  dreams  upon  the  breast  of  the  night. 
The  ticking  of  a  clock  made  each  second  seem  a 
minute,  and  save  for  this  the  silence  was  broken 
only  by  the  slowly  dropping  beads  of  the  nun's 
rosary  and  by  the  breathings  of  the  dying  man, 
which  rose  and  fell,  as  if  with  amens,  to  the 
prayers  she  was  making  for  him  and  forever. 

An  awful  quiet.  No  one  moved,  and  in  the 
hush  it  seemed  as  if  the  world  was  waiting  what 
would  so  surely  be.  Then  came  the  indistinct 
monotone  of  a  sergeant  repeating  his  night 
orders  to  the  relief,  and  when  this  was  stilled,  the 
cadence  of  the  marching  men  receded  and  was 
lost,  as  echoes  die  amid  the  hills. 


1 8  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

The  quiet  of  immortality  and  of  peace  for 
death  was  here. 

Suddenly  a  pallid  face  looked  through  the 
doorway,  an  eerie,  unearthly  cry  broke  upon  the 
night,  and  the  woman  I  had  met  in  the  Toulon 
streets  dashed  through  the  portals  and  cried, — 

"  Oh,  my  love,  my  Philip,  my  love,  live  for 
me!" 

With  outstretched  arms  and  yearning  eyes, 
she  halted  by  the  doorway,  while  the  face  of  the 
dying  man  flushed  as  a  sunset  sea  with  the  tide 
of  ebbing  life,  and  then,  with  a  last  effort  slowly 
sought  this  ghost  of  his  past,  uprisen  now. 

"  Home ! "  he  murmured.  "  Home !  God  knows 
best  and  all." 

His  hands  were  lifted  in  trembling  supplica- 
tion, but  not  to  her;  and,  with  a  smile  of  hope 
transfiguring  his  weary  face,  he  turned  to  the 
crucifix  on  the  wall,  and  thus  turning,  passed 
away. 

For  a  time  no  one  spoke.  We  stared  affright- 
edly  and  unnerved  at  this  ending;  all  but  the 
sweet  sister,  whose  face  rested  with  infinite  love 
upon  the  image  of  the  dead  Christ,  looking 
down  from  His  symbol  of  atonement,  upon  the 
man  He  had  died  to  save. 

The  woman  groped  her  way  to  the  bedside, 
and  in  the  mad  incoherency  of  grief,  poured  out 


DAL  TON ' S  JO URNAL.  j q 

a  confession  of  such  hopeless,  unbounded  love, 
mingled  with  such  threats  of  revenge  upon  the 
unnamed  maker  of  this  wreck,  that  I,  who  alone 
understood  her,  pray  heaven  I  may  never  hear 
its  like  again. 

Quietly,  and  with  the  benediction  of  a  life's 
sacrifice  upon  her,  the  nun  came  to  her  suffering 
woman,  and  said, — 

"  My  sister,  God  is  good.  He  died  for  such 
as  this  is,  for  such  as  we  are.     Pray  to  Him." 

We  left  them  there,  Delmonte  and  I,  and  with 
the  silvered  glory  gone  from  the  thorn-encircled 
brow  of  the  Master ;  and,  as  we  passed  out,  we 
saw  them,  in  the  great  common  humanity  of 
prayer  and  divine  dependence,  kneeling  there, 
minister  and  priest,  suffering  woman  and  pale 
sweet  nun,  all  bowed  beneath  the  mystery  aglow 
in  the  crowning  aureola  of  the  descending  spring 
moonlight. 

March  6th. 

This  morning  we  buried  the  American,  as 
we  have  learned  to  call  him,  and  as  he  asked, 
beyond  the  prison  walls,  and  with  the  prayers 
of  the  English  Church.  Will  his  story  remain 
untold  forever,  until  the  fullness  of  that  time 
when  all  things  are  made  clear — who  can  tell  ? 

The   name   given  in  the  criminal  records  is 


20 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


fictitious,  and  his  crime — a  robbery  from  the 
person,  accompanied  by  felonious  assault — ex- 
cludes any  but  the  most  prosaic  solution. 

All  the  members  of  the  mess  who  could  be 
spared  from  duty,  followed  the  modest  funeral 
in  citizen's  dress.  As  the  first  earth  fell  with 
its  unnerving  thud  upon  the  coffin,  a  woman 
clad  in  deepest  black,  and  so  closely  veiled  as 
to  be  unrecognizable,  stood  by  the  grave,  and 
said,  as  she  threw  three  roses  into  it:  "This  for 
love,  this  for  hate,  and  this  for  remembrance." 

When  the  grave  was  filled,  she  Avalked  out  of 
the  quiet  cemetery,  went  down  the  white  road 
blazing  in  the  sunshine,  where  neither  flowers  of 
spring  nor  grasses  told  of  the  immortality  of  ♦ 
hope,  and  so  onward  into  the  crowded  street 
and  out  of  our  lives  forever.  Out  of  our  lives, 
I  say,  for  the  Sergeant  de  Ville,  who  followed, 
learned  that  her  destination  was  Paris,  the  great 
city  to  the  northward,  which  swallows  yearly 
hundreds  such  as  she. 

Shall  I  ever  see  her  again  ?  And  whom  and 
what  can  such  a  Nemesis  be  pursuing  ?  A 
woman  of  iron,  this,  I  should  say,  with  her  heart 
so  pecked  at  by  the  daws  of  fate,  that  she  has 
learned  to  suffer  and  to  wait,  and  through  travail 
and  pain  to  gain  her  end,  be  it  good  or  evil, 
which  follows. 


CHAPTER  II. 


RUE   ST.    PIERRE, 


UPON  the  morning  of  the  14th  of  April, 
1879,  Paris  found  itself,  after  a  season  of 
chilling  rain,  blessed  by  the  brightness  of  a  day 
which  cheered  as  one  of  June.  So  sweet  and 
gracious  was  this,  that  it  gave  a  fictitious  glamor 
to  the  grimy  and  shabby  penitent  which  the  city 
so  often  is  in  the  pitiless  truths  of  morning. 
The  uncertain  month  had  been  cold  and  cheer- 
less. Ceaseless  downpours  of  soft  rain,  days  of 
grey  mist,  and  nights  of  yellow  fog  had  made 
holy  week  appeal  doubly  to  the  frightened  world- 
ling; and  Easter,  haplessly,  had  known  no  star 
nor  sun  to  make  it  the  jocund  day  which  poets 
sing.  It  was  the  season  of  daffodil  and  of  tulip, 
though  as  yet  no  primroses  shivered  in  the  Bois ; 
nor  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuilleries  did  the  early 
budding  chestnuts  bless  with  companionship  the 
crocuses  which  wept  a  welcome  to  spring. 

So,  in  this  glorious  morning  the  early  awaken- 
ing Parisians  enjoyed,  as  a  dower  long  withheld, 


22  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

the  glad  pipings  of  strange  birds,  the  unflecked 
blue  of  the  heavens,  the  flooding  gold  of  the 
sunbeams,  the  soft  breath  of  wandering  country- 
breezes,  and  the  unvexed  peace  which  dozed  in 
the  angles  not  yet  invaded  by  the  sunlight. 

The  quiet  of  early  morning  enfolded  the  city. 
From  the  Boulevard  there  came  no  lip-lipping 
of  the  tide  which  later  floods  and  overflows,  with- 
out ebb  or  lessening  current,  until  the  middle 
watches  of  the  night  are  gone  ;  and  from  the 
secluded  and  noisome  districts  these  broad 
avenues  surround,  there  rose  no  murmur  of 
the  labor,  that,  by  and  by,  will  rage  impotently 
at  the  walls  which  bann  the  seas  of  liberty  be- 
yond. 

Carriages  hurrying  from  the  Barriere  Balls  with 
the  latest  of  their  wretched  dancers,  flew  shame- 
facedly up  the  streets;  lumbering  country  wag- 
ons, driven  by  dozing  rustics  rumbled  slowly  and 
sullenly  toward  the  city's  walls ;  and  when  the 
day  grew,  faint  as  lace  in  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the 
smoke  from  forge  and  factory  trailed  southward 
before  the  freshening  breeze.  Yawning  shop- 
men opening  the  iron-barred  doors,  drew  in  long 
draughts  of  energy,  and  chatted  noisily  of  the 
sad  pleasures  which  made  the  sunlight  of  their 
little  lives;  and  from  Saint  Antoine,  workmen 
crawled  westward,  drowsy  and  bitter  at  first,  but 


RUE  ST.  PIERRE. 


23 


in  the  end  loud  with  laughter,  as  the  elixir  of  the 
light  and  breeze  coursed  in  their  sluggish  veins. 

As  they  went  to  their  labor  the  Sergeant  de 
Villa  watched  searchingly  from  the  light  of  the 
broad  roadway  these  earliest  tide-rips  of  the  flood 
which  later  overflows  in  labor's  restless  sea;  and 
when  they  swept  out  of  the  Boulevard  into  a 
narrow  street,  which  bore  them  to  the  shores  of 
their  daily  tale  of  bricks  and  straw,  he  followed 
slowly,  and  met  at  its  further  end,  coming  east- 
ward, a  group  of  police  officials. 

A  calm,  modest  street  was  this  Rue  St.  Pierre, 
during  many  hours  of  a  day  which  elsewhere 
were  loud  and  braggart.  Though  not  a  forgot- 
ten pathway,  either,  wherein  grasses  lifted,  fear- 
fully, pale-green  blades  between  the  crevices  of 
its  paving ;  for  it  had  its  busy  hours,  and  at  the 
high  noon  of  trade  and  barter,  echoed  with  the 
strife  of  buyer  and  seller.  But  when  these  were 
gone,  it  rested  peacefully  and  almost  unsought, 
save  by  those  who  lived  in  the  tall  and  gloomy 
houses  which  lined  its  pavement  and  shoved  a 
wilderness  of  chimneys  into  the  sky. 

Here  and  there  in  the  dingy  row  were  a  few 
better  and  newer  buildings,  and  of  these,  No. 
26,  standing  almost  in  the  middle  of  the  line, 
was  perhaps  the  best  and  newest.  After  a  mo- 
ment of  consultation  the  officials  halted  at  this 


24 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


house,  and  then  one  of  them  pulled  the  bell  with 
such  a  potent  absolutism  of  authority  in  his  sum- 
mons, that,  as  if  by  magic,  the  door  was  thrown 
widely  open,  and  the  concierge  appeared. 

Of  the  three  officials  who  entered  the  senior 
was  a  Juge  d'  instruction,  and  the  others  were  the 
Commissaire  of  Police  of  the  Quarter  and  the 
Judge's  clerk. 

"  The  occupants  of  this  house,  who  are  they  ?  " 
was  the  first  question  put  to  the  startled  woman. 
She  enumerated  these  stumblingly,  presented  her 
written  list  and,  with  a  shrill  persistency,  sub- 
mitted, in  proof  of  her  truthfulness,  a  package 
of  recommendations.  The  Commissaire  care- 
fully verified  the  first  document,  and  then  bowed 
to  ihe  Judge,  who  said, — 

"  Your  list  is  correct.  The  fourth  floor  is 
occupied  by  a  Madame  Marion  Darlington,  an 
American,  a  widow,  a  traveler.  So !  When  did 
you  see  her  last  ?  " 

"An  American?"  replied  the  concierge,  doubt- 
fully. "  I  do  not  know  that,  as  they  are  all  Eng- 
lish to  us,  except  in  their  generosity  and  courtesy. 
But  I  have  not  seen  Madame  Darlington," — and 
here  she  stopped  to  think  and  count  her  fin- 
gers,— "not  for  eleven  days." 

"  Her  apartments  ?  " 

"  Have    not   been    occupied    since    she    left 


RUE  ST.  FIE H RE. 


25 


They  are  locked,  and  by  her  request  have  been 
unopened;  and  here" — reaching  to  the  rack — 
"  here  is  the  key." 

"  Describe  her  appearance." 

"  She  was  a  lady,  I  should  say ;  true,  a  poor 
one,  but  a  lady,  undoubtedly.  Tall,  thin,  and 
not  in  good  health;  her  eyes  and  hair  were 
black ;  her  face  was  pale  and  sorrowful,  and  usu- 
ally she  was  very  quiet — though  I  have  heard 
her  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  some- 
times for  half  the  night;  so  much,  truly,  that 
the  lodger  below  complained ;  and  I  have  heard 
her  sobbing,  often  in  the  early  morning.  She 
spoke  but  a  few  times  to  us,  and,  so  far  as  we 
knew,  was  without  friends." 

Delighted  to  find  such  patient  listeners  the 
concierge  rattled  away  like  a  fusilade  on  a  picket 
line,  unmindful  of  her  shabby  husband,  who 
stood  in  a  dark  corner  vainly  making  signals 
of  caution.     Finally  she  said, — 

"  Madame  Darlington  arrived  three  months 
ago,  and  during  that  time  no  one  has  called 
upon  her." 

"  When  did  you  last  see  her, — I  mean  at  what 
time  of  the  day  ?"  demanded  the  Judge. 

"Upon  the  evening  of  the  3d  of  April  she 
came  down  the  stairs,  slowly,  as  if  in  pain,  said 
she  was  going  to  the  country  for  a  few  days,  and 


26  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

promised  if  detained  beyond  two  weeks  to  write. 
Then  she  gave  me,  in  coin,  the  month's  advance 
rent  for  the  agent." 

"  Describe  her  dress." 

"  Usually  it  was  dark,  though  when  I  saw  her 
last  she  wore  a  long  cloak.  I  remember  this, 
as  it  was  the  birthday  of  my  grandson.  Her 
sorrowful  face  frightened  the  boy,  and  he  ran  to 
me,  crying.  '  It  is  always  so,'  she  said,  with  a 
sad  smile,  *  children  never  love  me,  and  I,  ah ! 
how  I  could  love  them ! '  Then  she  called  the 
little  one  and  gave  him  a  franc  for  his  fete.  As 
she  passed  out  of  the  door,  I  saw  that  her  dress 
was  dark,  and  that  about  her  she  had  a  wrap — a 
cloak." 

"  Like  this  ?  "  inquired  the  Commissaire ;  and 
the  clerk,  unfastening  the  bundle  which  he  car- 
ried, showed  an  English  cloak,  soiled  and  stained, 
but  not  much  worn. 

The  concierge  examined  this  carefully,  and 
answered,  "  That  of  Madame  Darlington  was 
new;  this  looks  older,  but  the  pattern  is  the 
same.  I  marked  it  closely,  as  I  would  like  to 
have  such  a  one  for  my  daughter,  who  is  poor 
and  sometimes  cold.  Ah,  yes !  she  exclaimed, 
looking  closer,  see,  here  are  two  letters, — M.  D." 

She  pointed  out  the  initials  curiously  stitched 
in  a  comer,  which  no  one  but  a  woman  could 


RUE  ST.  PIERRE. 


27 


have  found.  The  officers  looked  at  each  other 
with  a  scarcely  expressed  sign  of  assent,  and  the 
Judge  said, — 

"  We  will  now  go  to  her  apartment," 
By  this  time  the  husband  of  the  concierge 
had  joined  them,  and  from  the  partly-opened 
doorway  of  the  bedroom  the  little  grandson 
peered  half  inquiringly,  half  affrightedly,  at  the 
unusual  scene.  Climbing  the  stairs  to  the  fourth 
story,  the  apartment  was  reached,  and  the  door 
being  unlocked,  it  was  found  to  be  an  unpreten- 
tious flat  of  five  rooms.  The  front  faced  the 
quiet  street,  the  rear  looked  upon  a  mouldy 
court-yard,  flanked  by  a  dressmaker's  workshop, 
wherein  a  dozen  lazy  girls  were  regretting  the 
hard  fortune  which  sent  them  so  early  to  work 
on  a  day  blessed  by  the  breeze  and  sunshine. 
The  sitting-room  was  dark  and  had  a  musty 
odor;  its  curtains  were  drawn  and  the  blinds 
were  closed,  though  through  chinks  here  and 
there,  where  the  wood  had  warped,  crept  rays 
of  sunlight,  which  in  places  were  broken  into 
prismatic  beams  that  gave  color  to  the  dancing 
motes. 

There  was  but  little  furniture,  and  apparently 
none  of  those  femininities  which  by  a  bit  of 
color,  or  a  touch  of  grace  would  have  saved  the 
surroundings  from  utter  dreariness.     Upon  the 


28  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

walls  were  a  few  cheap  lithographs,  so  badly 
hung  that  in  their  crudity  and  high  position 
there  was  an  equal  fitness  which  bespoke  a  hard, 
untrained  life.  A  porcelain  stove  standing  in 
one  corner  was  choked  with  the  smooth  and 
oily  convolutions  of  a  charred  manuscript,  which, 
though  frail  and  crumbling,  was  not  altogether 
beaten  into  feathery  ashes.  On  the  table  lay  a 
thick  hastily  sealed  letter,  and  in  the  socket  of  a 
flat  holder  a  candle  had  sputtered  and  gutted 
with  an  overflow  which  had  filled  the  cracks  of 
polished  wood. 

The  clerk  threw  open  the  windows,  and  as 
the  light  and  air  entered,  he  saw  in  a  cage 
upon  the  floor  the  ruffled  feathers  and  filmy,  half- 
closed  eyes  of  a  dead  canary  bird.  Scattered 
about  were  the  seed  and  sand ;  and  on  the  wires 
the  indentations  of  sharp  teeth  and  a  few  fluffy- 
hairs  showed  where  a  cat  had  tried  with  despera- 
tion to  kill  the  bird.  Over  head  was  the  string 
which  had  held  the  cage,  and  as  the  bird  was 
taken  out  by  the  clerk,  he  saw  that  the  wings 
were  broken,  as  if  it  had  beaten  out  its  life 
against  the  wires.  Surely  enough,  in  a  dingy 
closet  off"  the  kitchen,  glared  the  fiery  eyes  of  an 
enormous  cat,  fierce  with  hunger  and  wild  with 
fear.  As  the  clerk  flung  back  the  blinds  the  cat 
hissed  angrily,  and  then  with  a  bound,  leaped 


RUE  ST.  PIERRE. 


29 


through  the  casement  toward  a  neighboring 
roof,  tottered  and  fell  into  the  dreary  area. 

This  was  all,  though  pitiable  enough,  as  evi- 
dences of  the  sudden  impulse  which  had  aban- 
doned to  such  horrors,  the  bird  with  the  heavens 
for  the  marge  of  its  freeways,  and  the  cat,  which 
need  be  a  homeless  wanderer  nowhere.  As  the 
clerk  lifted  the  cage,  the  curly-headed  grandson 
of  the  concierge,  who  had  followed  them  labori- 
ously up  the  tiresome  stairway,  opened  it,  and 
stealing  to  his  grandmother's  side,  sat  during  the 
examination,  with  the  dead  bird  pressed  against 
his  warm  soft  cheek. 

A  thorough  search  showed  that  the  gowns 
and  linen  in  the  armoire  and  chiffoniere  were 
undisturbed ;  and,  as  the  concierge  pointed  out, 
that  little  was  altered  in  the  general  appearance 
of  the  room.  The  manuscript  upon  the  table 
was  enclosed  in  a  soiled  envelope,  and  was 
addressed  to  Colonel  Clifford  Bentley,  in  care  of 
the  American  Legation. 

The  officials  seated  themselves  at  the  table, 
and  after  the  usual  formal  questions  had  been 
recorded,  elicited  these  facts  : 

Mrs.  Darlington  appeared  to  have  no  friends  in 
Paris ;  she  was  rarely  absent  from  home  at  night, 
took  long  walks  by  day,  and  read  and  wrote 
constantly.      At  first  few  letters  came  for  her, 


30 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


though  she  appeared  always  to  be  expecting  them 
with  a  nervous  anxiety;  finally  even  these  failed, 
and  every  day  she  became  paler  and  quieter, 
never  ill,  but  evidently  suffering  from  great  men- 
tal distress.  What,  no  one  could  tell,  for  she 
neither  invited  questioning  nor  assistance. 

Five  weeks  before,  on  the  evening  of  the  4th 
of  March,  the  concierge  brought  her  a  letter,  and 
early  the  next  morning  she  was  driven  to  the 
station  for  Lyons.  Three  days  afterward  she 
returned  and  since  then,  until  the  evening  of  the 
3d,  had  rarely  ventured  out,  her  food  being  sup- 
plied from  a  restaurant  in  the  nearest  Boulevard. 

At  this  point  a  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs, 
and  as  the  examiners  looked  inquiringly,  Girard, 
a  detective  of  the  Main  Establishment  of  the 
Surete  entered,  saluted  the  others  courteously 
and   drew  a  chair  to  the  open  window. 

When  the  examination  was  concluded,  the 
Judge  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  Agent,  "  An 
ordinary  suicide,  M.  Girard,  which  appears  to 
have  been  the  result  of  a  sudden  impulse.  You 
know  the  story.  Eleven  days  since  a  scream 
was  heard  upon  the  Pont  d'Austerlitz,  followed 
almost  immediately  by  a  splash  in  the  water  and 
a  cry  for  help.  When  Robin,  the  Sergeant  de 
Ville,  who  was  on  duty  at  that  time  in  the  Quai 
de  la  Rapee,  reached  the  bridge,  all  was  quiet ; 


RUE  ST.  PIERRE. 


31 


near  the  middle  pier  he  found  a  cloak,  which  has 
been  identified  as  belonging  to  the  person  who 
lived  in  these  rooms.  Yesterday  evening  a 
corpse,  drifting  in  the  tide-way  past  Suresnes, 
was  brought  to  the  Morgue ;  when  searched 
nothing  was  discovered,  by  which  it  could  be 
identified,  except  a  handkerchief  with  the  name 
of  Marion  Darlington.  An  inquiry  showed  that 
such  a  foreigner  lived  here,  and  our  examination 
proves  she  has  been  absent  eleven  days.  The 
people  at  the  Morgue  say  the  body  has  been 
about  that  period  in  the  water ;  the  initials  of  the 
cloak  are  similar  to  those  upon  the  rest  of  her 
clothing;  and  though  no  identity  can  be  estab- 
lished by  the  face  of  the  dead  woman,  as,  unfor- 
tunately, it  is  sadly  disfigured,  yet  all  evidences 
indicate  that  the  drowned  woman  is  Madame 
Darlington." 

Girard  asked  and  received  permission  to  ex- 
amine the  rooms,  and  after  putting  a  few  ques- 
tions to  the  concierge,  said : 

"  But  of  the  details ;  why,  for  example,  should 
a  suicide  scream  before  the  act  ?  That,  sir,  seems 
unreasonable.  Is  it  certain  the  scream  was  first 
heard  ?  " 

"  So  says  Robin,"  replied  the  Judge. 

"  Robin,"  repeated  Girard,  "he  who  was  form- 
erly an  inspector  of  the  Siirete  ?  "  Girard  shrugged 


22  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

his  shoulders.  "  Well,"  he  continued,  "  Robin  is 
not  a  Vidocq.  But  we  must  take  this,  as  it  is ; 
suicide,  perhaps,  possibly  murder — surely  death 
— ^and  the  identity  seems  certain.  But  the  mo- 
tive ?  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  who  crossed  the  bridge 
at  that  time?" 

The  Commissaire  examined  his  notes,  and 
read :  "  A  young  man  of  good  height,  who 
walked  with  head  erect  and  shoulders  squared 
like  a  soldier.  He  greeted  Robin,  said  he  had 
heard  a  cry,  but  that  was  all,  and  then,  passing 
slowly  toward  the  Place  Mazas,  disappeared." 

"  Robin  did  not  detain  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Has  he  been  found  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,  but  we  have  a  clue  from  the  hack- 
man  who  drove  him  to  the  Boulevard." 

"The  body  of  course,"  asserted  the  detective, 
"is  at  the  Morgue?"  Receiving  an  assenting 
reply,  he  asked  the  Judge,  "  At  what  hour,  sir, 
will  you  summon  these  people  for  the  identifi- 
cation ?  " 

After  the  officials  had  consulted  a  moment, 
the  Judge  said  the  inquiry  would  be  continued 
at  ten. 

As  the  clerk  began  to  read  aloud  the  proces 
verbal,  Girard  made  his  adieus ;  but  at  the  landing 
he  halted  a  moment,  and  watched  a  man  who 


RUE  ST.  PIERRE. 


33 


was  mounting  the  stairway.  When  the  stranger 
reached  the  floor  he  looked  about  irresolutely 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  turning  to  Girard,  asked, 
pointing  to  the  rooms, — 

"  Pardon  me,  is  this  the  apartment  of  Madame 
Darlington  ?" 

Girard  replied,  and  after  the  new  arrival  had 
knocked  at  the  door,  and,  in  obedience  to  the 
summons,  entered,  the  detective  followed.  Bow- 
ing to  the  officials  who  had  completed  the  for- 
malities of  law,  the  stranger  said,  with  a  foreign 
accent,  but  with  an  intonation  which  was  not 
disagreeable  to  Parisian  ears, — 

"  Gentlemen,  my  name  is  Bentley.  I  have 
been  told  that  this  room  was  occupied  by  a 
countrywoman  of  mine,  an  American,  named 
Darlington, — Mrs.  Marion  Darlington.  Is  this 
information  correct  ?  " 

The  Judge  motioned  him  to  a  seat  and  an- 
swered, "  You  have  been  correctly  informed, 
sir.  She  is  supposed  to  have  committed  suicide, 
and  among  the  papers  found  is  this,  addressed 
to  a  Colonel  Clifford  Bentley." 

The  American  took  the  manuscript,  and  after 
examining  the  address  carefully,  appeared  to  be 
greatly  reassured,  for  he  exclaimed  in  a  happier 
tone,  "  This  is  my  name,  but  I  do  not  know  the 
writer." 


34  -4  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

As  he  returned  the  document,  the  Judge  de- 
clared :  "  Of  course  this  must  follow  the  usual 
forms;  but  I  think  when  the  legal  requirements 
are  satisfied,  that  there  will  be  no  delay  in  send- 
ing it  to  you  in  care  of  your  Minister." 

"I  recognize  the  propriety  and  necessity  of 
what  you  say.  May  I  ask,  has  any  definite  con- 
clusion been  reached  as  to  this  suicide  ?  " 

"None,  except  that  it  seems  to  have  been  a 
sudden  determination.  The  identification  is  as 
complete  as  can  be  expected  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

Seals  were  put  upon  everything,  and  when  the 
last  formalities  were  settled  with  that  definite  pre- 
cision which  the  French  code  demands,  the  party 
descended  to  the  bureau  of  the  concierge. 

As  Bentley  reached  the  street,  his  calm,  clear- 
cut  face  brightened  with  a  smile,  and  he  said  to 
the  detective, — 

"  M.  Girard,  though  a  stranger  to  you,  I  know 
of  you  very  well.  There  is  a  mystery  here,  and 
being  interested,  I  hope  to  have  the  benefit  of 
your  advice  and  assistance.  Will  a  note  to  the 
Prefecture  reach  you  to-day  ?  " 

The  Agent  thought  a  moment  and  answered, 
**  Yes,  but  I  could  not  see  you  before  this  after- 
noon ;  possibly  not  then." 

"At  your  convenience,  I  mean,  of  course,"  re- 


RUE  ST.  PIERRE. 


35 


turned  Bentley.  "I  live  in  the  Rue  Chaillot, 
and  need  your  counsel.  If  you  can  arrange 
your  other  affairs,  will  you  meet  me  to-day  at 
five  ?  Yes  ?  Thanks.  For  the  present  good- 
bye." 

As  Clifford  Bentley  passed  up  the  street,  Girard 
directed  the  Sergeant  who  had  been  on  duty  at 
the  door  to  follow,  and,  turning  to  the  Commis- 
saire,  said,  quickly, — 

"  Will  you  have  Robin  report  to  me  about  noon, 
near  the  Church  of  St.  Pierre  de  Chaillot  ?  You 
recall  it — the  one  near  the  Avenue  Josephine." 

The  Commissaire  laughed  quietly,  and  said, 
"  Of  course  ;  but,  Girard,  there's  nothing  in  this. 
It  is  a  suicide  without  a  doubt." 

Girard  called  a  fiacre,  and  told  the  driver  to 
follow  the  American  who,  on  his  way  westward, 
had  almost  reached  the  broader  avenue.  The 
Sergeant  de  Ville  had  kept  him  in  sight,  until 
relieved  by  the  signal  of  his  superior ;  and  then, 
though  the  Boulevard  widened  and  the  way- 
farers increased,  the  cabman  never  lost  him; 
for  Bentley  had  a  striking  figure,  and  was,  as 
Girard  had  described  him,  "  a  young  man  of 
good  height,  who  walked  slowly,  with  head  erect, 
and  shoulders  squared  like  a  soldier." 

With  the  keenness  of  a  hunting  dog,  the  driver, 
who  knew  and  admired  the  detective,  followed 


36  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

unfalteringly,  even  after  the  American  had  passed 
out  of  the  quiet  street  and  turned  toward  the 
heart  of  the  great  city,  now  beating  madly  with 
the  fevered  life  of  eager  day. 


CHAPTER   III. 


THE  COLONELS   STORY. 


BENTLEY  went  directly  to  his  apartments  in 
the  Rue  Chaillot  and  made  two  memoranda 
of  the  morning's  events.  One  of  these  he  kept, 
the  other  he  took  to  the  Legation.  Before  leav- 
ing, he  found  the  Second  Secretary  enjoying  one 
of  those  rare  moments  of  leisure  which  the  hard- 
est worked  attache  in  Europe  so  seldom  has.  He 
told  his  story  briefly,  and  was  promised  a  precis 
of  all  the  information  on  file  in  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Darlington. 

Leaving  the  offices  he  sauntered  abstractedly 
through  the  gardens  to  the  Boulevards,  until  he 
recalled  a  favorite  restaurant  in  the  Rue  Neuve 
des  Petits  Champs  where,  what  time  Terre  was 
gone,  they  gave  Thackeray  the  Chambertin  with 
yellow  seal.  As  he  sat  with  the  morning  jour- 
nals, awaiting  his  breakfast,  idly  watching  the 
sunshine  gleaming  in  the  water  of  the  carafe,  and 
hearing,  in  softened  echoes,  the  chant  of  the  street 
peddlers,  he  turned  from  his  newspapers  to  watch 

37 


28  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

the  bustling  throng,  and  to  drink  in  the  life  of 
the  busy  day.  There  was  to  him  a  compensation 
in  this,  for  it  drew  his  mind  away  from  the  misery 
of  the  past  ten  days  and  made  him  forget  himself 

Bentley  was  an  odd  compound  of  active  asser- 
tion and  passive  negation.  His  acceptance  of 
most  things  was  tempered  by  the  hope  of  future 
struggle,  his  protest  was  ever  dominated  by  the 
fear  of  speedy  submission.  With  him  victory 
often  became  defeat,  because  of  his  boundless 
pity,  not  only  for  the  weak  but  for  the  conquered. 
He  had,  too,  that  vague  unrest  which  is  the  pre- 
dominant American  characteristic;  though  in  the 
strife  of  contest,  as  in  the  unvexed  fields  of  rest, 
he  could  subordinate  so  perfectly  this  question- 
ing of  life's  realities  that  those  who  knew  him 
indifferently  fancied  him  to  be  ever  as  calm  and 
passionless  as  a  Japanese  idol  of  bronze. 

He  was  now  eight  and  thirty,  unmarried,  and 
not  poor,  though  equally  not  rich,  in  the  worldly 
sense.  In  figure,  he  was  well  balanced  and  of 
a  good  height,  giving,  however,  the  suggestion 
rather  of  physical  skill  than  of  bodily  strength. 
His  face  was  handsome,  his  eyes  were  black,  and 
of  a  brightness  which  was  softened  by  their  large- 
ness and  depth;  andthe  undisturbed  calm  of  his  fea- 
tures was  curiously  out  of  place  with  the  olive  com- 
plexion and  the  mouth  of  sensitive  curve  and  play. 


THE  CO  LONE  VS  STORY.  39 

He  had  been  graduated  with  honor  from  An- 
napolis at  an  unusually  early  age,  and  had  done 
his  duty  thoroughly  in  a  profession,  which,  of  all, 
is  the  most  rigorous  in  the  demands  it  makes 
upon  the  physical  and  mental  powers.  During 
the  early  part  of  the  war  his  service  on  shipboard 
had  been  brilliant,  but,  characteristically  enough, 
soon  after  the  passage  of  the  forts  below  New 
Orleans,  he  resigned,  entered  the  volunteer  army, 
and,  before  the  close  of  the  Rebellion,  reached 
the  grade  of  colonel. 

He  then  plunged  into  the  whirlpool  of  Wall 
Street,  and,  in  the  days  when  fortunes  were  made 
and  lost  in  the  turn  of  a  single  stock,  found  that 
the  life  suited  him  capitally ;  not  that  he  was  a 
large  operator,  but  because,  with  his  taste  for 
analysis,  he  became  a  sufficiently  shrewd  judge 
of  the  agents  producing  those  effects  which  the 
mob  accepted  as  causes,  to  have  made  a  com- 
fortable fortune. 

But  finally  when  speculation  became  a  dull 
routine  without  profit,  and  he  sold  his  seat  in 
the  Board,  Bentley  carried  with  him  from  Wall 
Street  the  kindliest  regards  of  his  associates,  and 
left  behind  a  reputation  for  keenness  and  cool- 
ness which  became  a  proverb. 

This  was  nearly  two  years  before,  and  as  he 
smoked  after  breakfast,  he  reflected,  sadly  enough, 


40  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

with  what  little  profit  the  time  had  been  passed. 
Presently,  he  strolled  into  the  street,  and  after 
idling  about,  trying  to  arrive  at  a  definite 
agreement  with  himself,  went  to  the  Prefecture 
of  the  Police,  which  was  then,  temporarily,  in 
the  Etat  Majeur  de  la  Garde,  and  left  a  note  for 
Girard, 

He  saw  by  the  church  of  St.  Pierre  as  he 
entered  the  Rue  Chaillot,  a  stupid  moon-faced 
person  who  watched  him  closely,  though  furtively, 
and  as  he  opened  the  door  Girard  appeared  in  the 
distance. 

He  worked  steadily  until  nearly  four  o'clock, 
arranging  papers  and  writing,  and  just  as  he 
began  to  doubt  if  Girard  would  come,  the  detec- 
tive was  announced, 

"  I  congratulate  you.  Colonel  Bentley,"  he  said, 
taking  the  chair  pointed  out  and  beaming  expan- 
sively; "you  are  not  the  man  of  the  bridge." 

"  Thanks.    What  man  of  the  bridge?  " 

"  Why,  our  man  of  the  bridge — the  one  whom 
Robin  saw  on  the  night  of  the  suicide." 

"  Robin  ? "  demanded  Bentley.  "  How  does 
he  know  ?  " 

"  Because  he  was  the  Sergeant  who  ran  to  the 
Pont  d'Austerlitz,  and  narrowly  scrutinized  the 
only  person  who  crossed  at  the  time.  He  is 
certain  it  was  not  you  ?  " 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY. 


41 


"  Robin  ?  Ah  !  you  mean  the  police  officer  I 
saw  at  the  corner  where  you  stationed  him." 

Girard  enjoyed  this  discovery  and  congratu- 
lated Bentley  upon  his  astuteness. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  interrupted  the  American ; 
"  I  saw  him  on  the  night  of  the  third,  and  re- 
membered him." 

"  You  saw  him — where?  "  asked  the  detective. 

"  On  the  Pont  dAusterlitz.  He  spoke  to  me 
and  I  answered.  He  was  much  excited,  and 
told  me  that  he  had  heard  a  cry  and  a  splash, 
as  though  somebody  had  fallen  or  been  pushed 
into  the  water." 

"And  you  ?  "  said  Girard. 

Bentley  remained  silent  a  moment  before  he 
added,  "  Yes,  I  heard  the  cry  and  the  splash." 

"But  may  I  ask  what  you  were  doing  on  that 
side  of  the  river  at  such  an  hour  ?  Were  you 
called  there  by  business  or  pleasure  ?  " 

"  Purely  by  an  affair  which  troubled  me  very 
much,"  admitted  Bentley.  "  But  why  this  ex- 
amination ?  " 

"Because  I  am  a  police  officer,  and  at  a  loss 
for  a  clue  to  the  death  of  this  American." 

"Am  I  a  clue?  Do  you  connect  me  in  any 
way  with  her  suicide  ?  " 

"  Frankly,  yes,  but  to  what  degree  I  cannot 
say.     Will  you   help  us  by  revealing  why  you 


42  -^  DESPERATE  CHANCE, 

went  to  that  quiet  district  and  all  that  happened 
there?" 

Bentley  played  idly  with  a  paper-cutter  he 
had  taken  from  the  table,  and  did  not  answer 
at  once.  Finally  he  said,  "  Well,  there  is  not  so 
much  to  tell,  though  I  have  had  no  rest  nor 
ease  since  it  all  occurred.  But  first  as  to  the 
identification  at  the  Morgue." 

"The  Officier  de  Sante  and  the  Juge  d'in- 
struction  of  the  arrondisement  are  satisfied,"  re- 
turned Girard.  "  There  were  three  bodies  on  the 
slabs,  and  the  one  supposed  to  be  Madame 
Darlington  was  so  battered  and  bruised  by  col- 
lisions with  the  piers,  and  boats  and  drift-wood 
that  nothing  positive  could  be  asserted.  The 
concierge  and  her  husband  were  present. 

" '  Is  it  she  ? '  demanded  the  magistrate. 

" '  I  cannot  tell,'  cried  the  woman,  shrinking. 
*  It  is  like  her,  very  much  like  her — I  think  it  is 
the  lady.' 

"  *  You  cannot  swear  ? ' 

" '  No,  but  I  believe  this  to  be  the  person 
who  lived  in  our  fourth  apartment — ' 

" '  Come  nearer,'  growled  the  magistrate,  you 
are  not  afraid  of  the  dead,  and  in  the  daylight — 
examine  closer.' 

"'Spare  me,'  begged  the  woman.  And  then 
her  husband  came  forward  and  said,  '  My  wife 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY.  43 

is  right.  This  is  the  lady  who  hved  in  the  Rue 
St.  Pierre.  I  can  swear  it,  and  by  these  signs/ 
and  he  repeated,  ghbly  enough,  points  of  resem- 
blance which  seemed  convincing." 

"  What  is  your  belief.  Monsieur  Girard?  "  urged 
Bentley. 

"  So  far  as  one  person  may  identify  another 
after  the  tides  and  currents  and  fishes  have  had 
their  way,  I  should  say  the  descriptions  agree. 
In  height,  in  figure,  in  costume ;  in  the  time  of 
absence  and  in  the  handkerchief  found.  All  these 
would  seem  to  give  a  positive  proof.  Though 
for  the  handkerchief — pouf ! — these  people  who 
handle  the  city's  dead  are  poor  and  human,  and, 
if  one  had  an  object,  many  things  could  be  donq." 

"  When  may  we  bury  her  ?  "  asked  Bentley. 

"  To-morrow  is  the  earliest  legal  limit,  and 
after  that  you  will  be  given  the  manuscript  found 
in  her  room." 

Bentley  arose,  went  to  his  desk,  and  unlocking 
a  drawer  carefully  examined  a  number  of  papers ; 
he  placed  his  chair  so  that  the  light  fell  directly 
upon  Girard's  face,  and,  as  he  watched  its  play, 
told  his  story;  sometimes  he  referred  to  the 
letters  besides  him,  and  often  he  paused  to  indi- 
cate upon  a  map  the  locations  of  which  he  spoke. 
He  began  his  narrative  at  once,  and  without 
any  preface. 


44 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


For  many  years  Philip  Catlin  had  been  his 
nearest  friend,  but  time,  circumstances,  a  differ- 
ence of  professions  and  of  aims  finally  separated 
them;  they  met,  at  intervals,  however,  until  two 
years  since,  and  then  Catlin  passed  out  of  his 
life  completely.  Four  months  ago  he  received 
from  Philip's  sister  a  most  pathetic  letter  in 
which,  after  reciting  certain  personal  details  con- 
nected with  her  brother,  she  asked  that  a  search 
might  be  made  for  him  through  Italy  and 
France.  At  her  request  this  was  carried  on 
with  as  little  publicity  as  possible,  and  in  the 
end  was  fruitless. 

Two  weeks  before,  on  the  second  of  April,  he 
received  this  letter : 

"If  Colonel  Clifford  Bentley  wUl  be  on  the 
Pont  d'Ajisterlitz  to-morrow  night  at  nine,  he  may 
learn  something  of  the  friend  for  whojn  he  is 
searching." 

Girard  asked  to  see  this  message.  It  was 
signed  Marion  Darlington,  and  was  written  hur- 
riedly and  carelessly  in  a  sharp-pointed  American 
script. 

Upon  the  third  of  April,  soon  after  eight  o'clock, 
Bentley  drove  as  far  as  the  Place  de  la  Bastille 
and,  leaving  the  cab,  passed  by  the  Arsenal  into 
the  Place  Mazas.  It  was  a  dark,  starless  night  with 
scarcely  a  ghost  of  a  breeze,  and  yet  filled  with  a 


THE  COL  ONEL  'S  STOR  Y. 


45 


rawness  and  a  chilliness  which  ate  to  the  bone. 
He  crossed  the  bridge,  and,  after  resting  a  mo- 
ment by  the  last  pier,  strolled  into  the  Boulevard 
L'Hopital  looking  for  the  friendly  assistance  of 
a  light  for  his  cigar.  Walking  slowly  along  the 
street  he  saw,  at  the  extremity  of  a  blind  alley 
that  had  escaped  the  torrent  of  improvement 
which  opened  the  broad  avenue,  the  red  and 
white  light  of  a  Cabaret-borgne.  Groping  his 
way  down  the  little  street,  he  entered  and  found 
it  to  be  a  darksome,  greasy  and  malodorous 
shop,  wherein  a  few  people,  mainly  of  the  work- 
ing classes,  were  sitting.  All  were  quiet  and 
sober  save  a  hard-looking  character  in  blouse 
and  cap,  who  was  boosily  apostrophising  a  cheap 
print  of  Gambetta  which  dominated  the  shelf 
whereon  the  bottles  were  ranged  in  death-dealing 
ranks.  Behind  the  zinc-covered  bar  the  woman 
of  the  place  listened  stolidly  to  the  patriotic  sen- 
timents of  the  person  from  Belleville,  and  at  the 
same  time  kept  a  wary  eye, — and  an  evil  one  too, 
— not  upon  the  seedy  student  in  velvet  coat  and 
red  tie  and  his  poor,  shabby  Bernerette  from  the 
Quartier  Latin  near  by — but  upon  the  half-muffled 
figure  of  a  woman  who  sat  in  a  gloomy  corner 
alone,  a  woman  who,  even  in  the  half  light, 
looked  out  of  place  just  now  in  this  dismal  den. 
Bentley,  who  recalled  all  the  incidents  of  the 


^6  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

night  with  a  memory  nothing  could  obscure, 
saw  that  this  woman  kept  her  face  hidden  from 
view,  and  that  in  her  pose  there  was  something 
which  told  more  of  the  lassitude  of  despair  than 
of  the  muscular  relaxation  due  to  the  cognac 
she  had  been  drinking.  Watching  her  he  tried 
to  fancy  the  queer  fate  which,  at  this  period  of 
life,  could  have  brought  her  to  a  little  dram-shop 
in  the  last  of  the  cul-de-sacs.  She  might  have 
been  there  earlier,  it  could  have  been  the  begin- 
ning of  that  journey  when  the  Brasserie  was  a 
paradise  of  color  and  music ;  she  might  return 
there  later  when  her  sunshine  was  eclipsed, — 
but  now  she  seemed  more  fit  for  the  Cafe  Riche, 
and  for  the  life  of  idle  bee  and  lavish  honey, 
where  diamonds  glittered  like  serpent's  eyes 
upon  the  shoulders  she  turned  so  coldly  to  the 
wooing  of  her  lovers. 

He  had  seen  so  many  like  her  before,  that  he 
wondered  if  she  was  thinking  with  bitter  re- 
gret of  those  happier  days  when  she  worked 
blithely  from  morn  to  evening,  when  roast  chest- 
nuts and  gallete  were  ambrosia,  and  a  dance 
at  the  Grand  Chaumiere  on  Mont  St.  Parnasse 
was  the  offering  which  opened  the  gateway  of 
Heaven. 

Bentley  called  for  some  cognac,  tossed  it  off 
with  a  scarcely  disguised  grimace,  lighted  his 


THE  COL  ONEL  'S  STOR  V.  47 

cigar,  and  with  a  salutation  to  the  bar-woman 
went  out  of  the  dreary  den.  Even  the  raw  air  of 
night  was  a  tonic  after  the  foulness  of  the  place, 
and  stumbling  blindly  up  the  ill-paved  alley,  he 
heard  the  bell  of  a  distant  church  striking  the 
last  quarter  before  nine. 

At  the  Boulevard  he  saluted  a  police  official 
and  made  his  way  quickly  and  expectantly  to 
the  bridge.  No  one  awaited  him.  He  crossed 
hastily,  and  with  a  growing  nervousness  and  im- 
patience stood  in  the  screen  of  a  friendly  shadow 
until  the  night  was  noisy  with  the  chime  of 
clocks  in  spire  and  steeple. 

"  Few  people  had  passed  up  to  this  time,"  he 
continued,  in  a  voice  strident  with  excitement, 
"  and  as  I  watched  the  roadway  I  saw  finally  that 
the  bridge  was  deserted.  Waiting  until  the  fall- 
ing mist  had  chilled  me,  I  walked  slowly  from 
pier  to  pier,  and  at  last,  believing  I  had  been 
duped,  was  about  to  go  home,  when  I  discovered 
a  woman  stealing  out  of  the  gloom  from  the  Pays 
Latin  side  of  the  river. 

"  She  moved  irresolutely,  but  always  in  the 
shadows  where  through  the  yellow  fog  the  lamps 
shone  with  a  spectral  glow.  I  cannot  describe 
her  even  in  the  most  general  way,  except  that 
she  was  tall  and  of  good  proportions.  She 
paused  often  as  if  waiting,  and  once  she  retraced 


48 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


her  steps ;  but  she  soon  turned,  and  with  more 
resolution  pressed  forward  until  she  reached  a 
point  nearly  twenty  yards  from  my  hiding-place. 

"  Here  a  new  impulse  seemed  suddenly  to  gov- 
ern her,  for,  as  if  terrified,  she  shrank  quickly 
behind  a  pier-head,  and  at  that  moment  another 
woman  rushed  madly  past  her  and  onward  to 
the  centre  of  the  bridge.  Without  the  least  hesi- 
tation this  one,  in  a  fierce  desperation,  climbed  to 
the  parapet,  and  then,  with  uplifted  hands,  and 
in  silence,  sprang  into  the  darkness  and  death  of 
the  river. 

"  At  that  instant  the  night  was  smitten  by  a 
cry  of  terror,  and  as  the  woman  I  first  saw  reeled 
and  fell  in  the  pathway,  there  followed,  above  the 
rumble  of  tide  and  the  sob  of  rising  wind,  the 
roar  of  the  disturbed  waters  as  they  opened  to 
engulf  the  falling  body. 

"  Panic-stricken,  I  clambered  to  the  broad  shelf 
of  stone,  and  as  I  hung  over  its  edge,  peering 
for  some  sign  from  the  murky  depths,  I  heard 
behind  me  the  toilsome  scramble  of  climbing 
feet ;  turning,  I  beheld  the  other  woman  scaling 
the  railing  beyond.  When  she  stood  upon  the 
wide  cap  of  the  parapet,  she  wrung  her  hands 
in  nervous  terror,  leaned  far  over,  and  with 
uplifted  arms  she  too  made  ready  to  spring. 
What  I  called  out,  I  cannot  tell,  but  it  held 


THE  COL  ONEL  '5  STOR  Y.  ^g 

her  spell-bound,  and  as  I  jumped  toward  her 
she  staggered,  swayed  and  fell — fell,  thank  God, 
— not  in  the  angry  current,  but  upon  the  road- 
way. 

"  I  was  dazed ;  unmanned,  and  in  that  moment 
of  hesitation  she  gained  her  feet,  flew  shoreward, 
and,  with  a  sharp  turn  at  the  Gardens,  disap- 
peared, as  if  the  land  had  entombed  her,  even  as 
the  night  and  tide  had  drawn  to  death  the  one 
she  had  tried  to  follow." 

Bentley  shaded  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and 
with  the  other  seemed  to  be  exorcising  from  sight 
and  memory  the  horrors  of  the  night. 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  "  he  added.  "  Who  would 
believe  my  story  ?  And,  besides,  leaving  out  the 
probabilities  of  suspicion  being  arrayed  against 
me,  I  shrank  from  the  notoriety  my  unsought, 
innocent  connection  with  the  suicide,  would  bring. 

"  With  such  self-possession  as  I  could  muster, 
I  crossed  the  bridge  and  met  Robin.  He  was 
much  excited  by  all  he  knew  and  suspected. 
To  his  inquiries,  I  replied  that  I  had  heard  the 
cry  and  the  splash,  and,  as  he  seemed  helpless, 
I  advised  him  to  find  a  boat  at  once,  and,  with  a 
bare  chance  of  rescue,  to  follow  the  tide.  Two 
workmen  joined  us,  and  half  learning  the  story, 
hurried  upon  this  errand,  and  spared  me  the 
necessity  of  offering  an  assistance  which  I  felt 
4 


so 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


would  be  useless.  As  Robin  started  to  search 
the  bridge,  I  hastened  to  the  Place  de  la  Bastille, 
and,  finding  my  cab,  was  driven  to  the  Boulevard. 

"And  that  is  all,  though  the  horror  of  the  scene 
is  always  with  me.  When  I  received  word  late 
last  night  from  an  official  that  a  body  answering 
the  description  given  by  me  had  been  found,  I 
went  to  the  Morgue,  and  was  directed  to  the 
house  in  the  Rue  St.  Pierre,  where  I  met  you  this 
morning." 

Girard's  experience  had  never  been  before  tan- 
gent to  such  a  circle  as  this.  The  very  improb- 
ability of  the  confession  meant  much  to  him  as 
proof  of  its  truth ;  the  confidence  it  implied 
touched  him,  and  its  general  features  agreed 
with  what  Robin  had  reported.  For  though 
Robin  was  a  dolt  from  the  astute  Girard's  point 
of  view,  he  was  not  such  a  fool  as  the  little  trap 
laid  for  Bentley  by  the  latter  would  have  implied. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Bentley,"  said  Girard. 
"  I  have  been  doing  you  the  injustice  of  believ- 
ing you  an  ordinary  criminal.  You  are  either  a 
very  clever  one  or  an  innocent  man.  I  think, 
honestly,  you  are  the  latter.  But  we  are  all  apt 
to  be  rogues,  you  know;  it  is  simply  a  question 
of  temptation  and  opportunity.  I  am  at  fault, 
and  for  the  present  my  hands  are  tied." 

"  The  books,"  answered  Bentley,  in  a  lighter 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY. 


51 


vein,  "rarely  permit  j^'ou  this  luxury.  They 
describe  you  as  mysterious  beings,  and  give  you 
the  gift  of  discovering  new  worlds  from  the 
faintest  shadows  of  the  universe." 

"Yes, — it  reads  well.  That  is,  Monsieur  Ga- 
boriau  does.  No,  sir ;  we  are  simply  men  who 
believe  and  remember  trifles.  Many  of  us  have 
been  rogues,  and  we  catch  these  gentlemen, 
because  we  know  how  they  reason.  There  are 
steps  wanting  in  my  ladder,  but  with  patience 
and  good  luck  I  may  find  them  in  the  end. 
Ah,  yes !  with  good  luck,  for,  after  all,  that  is 
where  the  dramatic  strokes,  the  coups  de  theatre 
which  the  novelists  tell  of  us,  have  their  being." 

Bentley's  servant  here  brought  him  an  official 
communication  from  the  Legation.  Opening  it, 
he  turned  the  leaves  eagerly,  for  it  was  a  history 
of  the  correspondence  between  Marion  Darling- 
ton and  the  Minister  in  relation  to  the  search  for 
Philip  Catlin.  The  last  paragraph  was  a  sad 
one.  It  read :  "  The  Minister  has  learned  from 
the  Foreign  Office  that  Philip  Catlin,  the  person 
sought,  committed  suicide  on  the  fifth  of  March, 
in  the  Hospital  of  the  Convict  Station  at  Toulon, 
to  which  prison  he  had  been  sent,  under  an 
assumed  name,  for  robbery." 

The  shock  to  Bentley  was  very  great,  and 
though  he  felt,  to  some  degree,  guilty  for  his 


52 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


failure  to  find  Catlin,  he  realized  that  no  effort  of 
his  could  have  forestalled  the  fate  which  had 
pursued  his  friend. 

By  this  time  it  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  and  the 
sunlight  was  stealing  from  the  sky.  When  Gir- 
ard  prepared  to  leave,  Bentley  said  he  would 
accompany  him  a  part  of  the  way,  for  this 
trouble  urged  him  by  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
seek  the  scene  where  these  tragedies  had  come 
into  his  life.  He  could  not  trace  any  explicit 
relation  between  Catlin  and  Mrs.  Darlington,  but 
he  confessed  that  he  owed  some  expiation  to 
the  poor  friend  who  had  perished  so  miserably. 

As  they  rose  to  go  the  servant  again  entered, 
and  gave  Bentley  a  card.  "  Marsden,"  he  read 
aloud,  with  a  sudden  new  happiness.  "  So  she 
is  in  Paris ;  thank  God  for  that ! "  While  waiting 
for  the  gentleman  to  appear,  he  said  to  Girard, 
"  Can  you  remain,  for  we  may  learn  something 
bearing  on  this  very  case." 

Girard  resumed  his  seat,  just  as  Henry  Marsden 
entered  the  room.  He  was  a  tall,  well-built  man, 
over  fifty  years  of  age,  with  iron-grey  hair  and 
moustache,  and  features  that  were  characterized 
by  the  certain  fretfulness  of  expression  which 
reveals  the  invalid  who  thinks  mainly  of  his 
ailments.  He  was  distinguished  in  bearing,  was 
dressed  quietly  in  the  best  possible   form,  and 


THE  COL  ONEL  'S  STOR  Y. 


sz 


his  entrance  and  salutation  fixed  his  social  op- 
portunities and  position  at  once.  Bentley  greeted 
him  warmly,  introduced  Girard  simply  by  name, 
and  then,  after  the  few  conventional  inquiries, 
there  intervened  that  half  instant  of  constrained 
silence  when  the  desire  to  speak  in  confidence 
is  confronted  by  the  presence  of  a  third  party. 
Marsden  looked  inquiringly  at  Girard,  and  said 
in  French,  for  there  was  no  doubting  the  detec- 
tive's nationality, — 

"  I  have  come,  Bentley,  upon  a  matter  which 
I  desire  to  have  considered  by  you,  as  early  as 
your  leisure  will  permit.  It  relates  mainly  to 
myself" 

Bentley  replied:  "At  any  time,"  and,  with 
an  intuition  that  was  the  outcome  of  the  sub- 
ordination of  his  mental  processes  to  the  affair 
which  had  occupied  and  disturbed  him  so  much 
of  late,  added,  quickly, — 

"  May  I  ask  you,  is  this  in  connection  with  a 
Mrs.  Darlington  ?  " 

This  question  affected  Marsden  as  an  unex- 
pected blow  might  have  done.  Its  immediate 
apparent  result  was  a  nervousness  that  was  mani- 
fested in  the  trembling  manner  with  which  he 
stroked  his  moustache,  and  turned  and  twisted 
the  ring  of  curious  pattern  he  wore  upon  the 
third  finger  of  his  left  hand. 


54 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"  Pardon  my  abruptness,"  Bentley  apologized ; 
"  but  this  has  been  a  season  of  sad  surprises." 

"  Yes,"  Marsden  replied,  and  now  ignoring 
^  Girard  by  speaking  in  English,  "Yes,  I  have 
come  for  that  purpose." 

"  Then  you  may  talk  frankly,  for  we  all  have 
an  interest  in  this  woman.  Monsieur  Girard  is 
an  Agent  of  the  Surete,  and,  I  believe,  will  be 
of  great  assistance." 

"We  are  trying  to  unravel  this  affair,"  said 
Girard,  in  excellent  English,  for  he  had  lived  at 
one  time  in  the  United  States,  "  though  at  present 
we  are  at  fault.  But  there  are  clues.  Colonel 
Bentley,  who  was  one,  has  been  disappointing, 
in  a  certain  sense,  at  least;  still  there  are 
others." 

"  It  seems,  then,  to  be  a  serious  affair  ?  "  Mars- 
den asked. 

"  So  serious,"  returned  Bentley, "  that  no  one 
can  be  more  interested  than  I  to  find  why  Mrs. 
Darlington  killed  herself" 

"Killed  herself !"  cried  Marsden,  rising  from 
his  chair.     "  Dead !     She  is  not  dead  ?  " 

Was  it  anguish  or  joy  which  most  rang  in  this 
sudden  inquiry  ? 

When  he  controlled  his  nervousness,  Marsden 
said :  "  Bentley,  this  makes  my  duty  a  simple  one. 
I  arrived  but  two  hours  since  from  the  South. 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY. 


55 


I  have  hurried  without  rest  from  Algiers,  for  I 
hoped  to  have  averted  all  chances  of  calamity,  of 
disaster  but,  it  seems  now,  in  vain." 

He  took  from  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat  several 
letters,  and,  looking  at  each  one  carefully,  handed 
them  to  Bentley  and  explained : 

"These  bear  directly  upon  the  case,  though 
they  will  be  of  little  avail  in  proving  why  the 
mad  woman  who  wrote  them  should  have  com- 
mitted suicide.  May  I  ask  you  to  read  them, 
and  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  advice.  What- 
ever intentions  I  may  have  had  are  necessarily 
changed  by  the  death  of  this  person,  and  I 
cannot  act  unless  my  way  is  made  more  clear. 
There  are,"  he  added,  bowing  to  Girard,  "  certain 
objections  to  any  one  but  Colonel  Bentley,  read- 
ing these  letters ;  of  course,  should  the  necessity 
arise,  we  hope  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  experience 
of  M.  Girard — an  experience  which  we  all  know 
to  be  so  valuable." 

At  this,  the  detective  turned  towards  the  speaker. 
He  had  been  standing  at  the  window,  apparently 
watching  the  pigeons  circling  above  the  cotes  of 
a  neighboring  fancier,  and  listening  to  the  inter- 
view only  in  that  deprecatory  way  which  would 
make  the  principals  understand  how  subordinate 
his  interest  had  now  become.  But,  with  this 
direct  reference  to  himself,  he  brought  his  heels 


56 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


together  with  a  snap,  made  his  finest  Continental 
bow,  and,  waving  his  hands  in  graceful  curves 
which  joined  his  hat  and  bosom,  included  them 
both  in  the  sphere  of  his  respectful  considera- 
tion. 

Marsden  left  the  room,  and,  at  the  landing, 
exclaimed, — 

"  Bentley,  this  damned  affair  has  upset  me. 
Come  and  see  us.  We  are  at  the  old  hotel,  and 
Isabel,  of  course,  is  here," 

A  light  of  anticipation  shone  in  Bentley's  eyes, 
as  he  answered, — 

"  I  shall  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
to-morrow ;  and  Miss  Marsden ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  is  very  well.  By  the  way,  she  said 
something  about  having  met  old  Mrs,  Harber, 
who  has  asked  us  to  her  reception  this  evening  ? 
Are  you  going?  " 

Bentley  had  not  intended  availing  himself  of 
his  invitation,  though  he  liked  Mrs.  Harber  very 
well.  The  truth  is,  just  now,  he  was  too  much 
hipped  to  join  in  the  gayeties  which  the  post- 
Lenten  season  had  brought  with  disquieting  fre- 
quency, but  he  replied,  unhesitatingly, — 

"  Oh  yes,  and  you  may  be  assured  I  shall  do 
my  very  best  in  this  sad  affair." 

There  was  a  window  in  Bentley's  sitting-room, 
opening  upon  a  narrow  street,  which,  after  desert- 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY. 


57 


ing  the  main  avenue,  slunk  into  a  devious  route, 
where  finally  it  was  lost  by  the  friendly  aid  of 
diverging  by-ways,  Girard  was  standing  by  this 
casement,  and,  as  Bentley  entered  the  room,  had 
just  passed  a  handkerchief  with  a  quick  curve 
before  his  face.  From  a  corner  where  the  brick 
walls  of  a  garden  frame  this  little  passageway, 
there  came  an  answering  signal,  and  then  Robin 
passing  hurriedly  over  the  open  space,  dove  into 
its  depths,  and  was  engulfed  in  the  darkness 
resting  upon  the  hushed  city. 

Night  had  fallen,  and  as  Girard  made  his 
adieus  he  said, — 

"  When  shall  I  report  again  ?  " 

"To-morrow,  and  thank  you  for  coming  to- 
day.    If  possible,  please  be  here  at  ten." 

"And  you  are  sure,"  he  asked,  looking  at  the 
American  with  a  glance  which  missed  no  play 
of  feature  nor  any  thrill  of  voice, — "  You  are 
sure  that  the  other  woman  fell  upon  the  bridge, 
and  not  in  the  river." 

"  As  sure  of  it  as  I  am  that  I  see  you  now," 
answered  Bentley. 

"  And  she  ran  and  was  lost  in  the  darkness  ?  " 

"She  ran,"  repeated  Bentley,  gravely,  "with 
the  fleetness  of  a  hunted  deer,  and  was  lost  in 
the  darkness." 

As  they  stood  at  the  landing,  Bentley  put  his 


58 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


arms  upon  Girard's  shoulders,  and  turning  so 
that  the  light  shone  clearly  upon  himself,  said, 
slowly, — 

"Shall  I  swear  it?" 


CHAPTER   IV. 

ISABEL. 

FROM  the  beginning,  the  suicide  he  had  wit- 
nessed had  been  a  cause  of  profound  grief 
to  Bentley,  and  its  myster}^  and  the  utter  help- 
lessness of  his  association  with  it  made  him  feel 
that  a  persistent  fate  was  darkening  his  days. 

It  was  only  natural  that  he  sought  constantly 
for  any  news  of  the  drowned  woman.  No  day 
passed  in  which  he  did  not  go  to  the  Morgue, 
and  there  was  no  bridge,  save  one,  no  boat  land- 
ing nor  bathing  float  he  had  not  visited  in  this 
sad  quest.  Up  and  down  the  Quais,  in  the  broad 
daylight  and  under  the  starlit  sky,  he  had  walked 
with  this  grim  persistency  of  purpose,  until,  at 
last,  even  the  testy  gentlemen  seeking  choice 
editions  on  the  Quais  Malaquais  and  Voltaire, 
knew  him  as  well  as  did  the  gruff  old  soldier 
who  sat  in  the  sunshine  and  the  rain  near  the 
entrance  to  the  Pont  Neuf 

But  in  all  these  wanderings  he  never  went  to 
the  fatal  bridge,  for  he  felt  that  if  he  stood  upon 

59 


6o  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

the  spot,  even  for  a  moment,  he  too  would  climb 
the  parapet,  he  too  would  lift  his  hands  to  the 
pitiless  heavens,  and,  without  a  cry,  he  too  would 
throw  himself  into  the  current,  flowing  less  slug- 
gishly perhaps,  but  no  less  certain,  than  the 
waters  which  have  dashed  in  sullen  fury  against 
the  arches  of  the  Pont  Royal  many  a  mortal  not 
half  so  mad  as  he. 

The  route  he  followed  was  through  the  Rue 
Bizet  to  the  Pont  de  I'Alma,  and  so  to  the  Pont 
de  Constantine  where,  amid  the  throng  of  foot 
passengers,  he  seemed  the  only  loiterer.  But  he 
went  no  further.  Here  for  hours  he  would  sit, 
always  rehearsing  the  tragedy  he  had  seen ;  and 
here,  with  straining  eyes  and  beating  heart,  he 
would  watch  the  moving  masses  on  the  high 
banks  of  the  river,  the  stream  creeping  along 
with  fantastic  reflections  of  the  colored  boat- 
houses,  the  bridges  joining  their  arches  in  its 
depths  and  the  noisy  boats  borne  upon  its  bosom. 
The  life  and  bustle  of  the  throngs  descending 
the  terraces  were  all  to  him  a  part  of  the  great 
tragedy,  and  the  murmur  of  the  stream  at  night 
and  the  cool  whispering  of  the  spring-tide  breezes, 
were  a  chorus  of  grief  which  the  day  had  hushed 
but  could  not  still. 

When  the  body  was  found  there  was  a  sudden 
release  to  the  strain  upon   his   mind,  such  as 


ISABEL.  5l 

might  happen  to  a  metal  spring,  when,  under 
the  tension  of  narrowing  convolutions,  it  has 
reached  a  point  of  exertion,  where  it  must  break 
or  discard  the  throttling  force.  The  reaction, 
fortunately,  was  not  so  great  as  the  action,  though 
more  sudden ;  and  when  he  learned  that  between 
Catlin  and  Marion  Darlington  there  was  a  rela- 
tion which  in  some  degrees  justified  the  part  he 
had  been  called  upon  to  play,  he  turned  hope- 
fully, and  with  a  livelier  expectation  of  success, 
to  a  study  of  the  documents  before  him. 

After  Girard  left  he  lighted  his  St.  Germain 
lamp,  stirred  into  a  friendly  flame  the  soft  coal 
fire  which  he  excused  as  a  necessity  of  his  sur- 
roundings, and  sat  down  to  a  patient  reading  of 
the  papers. 

In  addition  to  the  official  correspondence  there 
were  four  letters,  three  left  by  Marsden  and  one 
which  he  took  from  his  writing  desk.  All  of 
these  he  examined  carefully,  making  notes  for 
future  reference,  and  then  he  put  them  in  a  large 
envelope,  which  he  sealed  and  secreted  in  his 
desk. 

The  sense  of  exquisite  relief  he  was  experi- 
encing shone  in  his  face,  and  found  an  outcome 
in  the  joyousness  of  his  mood.  He  hummed  a 
jocund  tune,  threw  back  the  curtains,  and  in  the 
echoes  of  the  rattling  cabs,  in  the  song  of  the 


62  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

night  winds,  in  the  subdued  roar  of  the  distant 
crowded  streets,  in  the  gleaming  lights  of  the 
squares  and  parks,  and  in  their  lessening  glim- 
mer as  they  crept  to  the  hill  tops ; — in  all  of 
these  he  found  a  lesson  of  hope  which  har- 
monized with  the  unbroken  vault  of  lapus- 
lazuli  sky  where  a  crescent  moon  sailed  up- 
ward in  the  glory  of  coming  completeness. 

He  dressed  hurriedly,  and  going  into  the 
street  bade  the  driver  of  the  cab  which  he  had 
ordered  to  take  him,  by  way  of  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees,  to  Verfours.  There  was  a  joy  even  in  this 
freedom  from  the  bondage  to  an  idea  which  had 
hitherto  impelled  him  when  going  eastward  to 
take  the  devious  way  by  quais  and  bridges.  His 
own  street  was  quiet,  for  at  this  hour  it  became  an 
unruffled  corner  in  a  current  where  eddies  ceased 
to  fret;  but  as  the  cab  rattled  into  the  broad 
avenue,  he  encountered  the  first  creeping  of  the 
lesser  flood,  which  during  the  late  afternoon 
breaks  full  burdened  at  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
into  estuaries  that  sweep  placidly  through  the 
pleasant  fields  of  fashion  encircling  this  land 
of  fruitful  ease.  As  the  cab  drove  under  the 
opening  tendrils  and  swinging  branches  of  the 
Champs,  he  drew  a  fresher  inspiration  from  the 
scene;  and  as  the  elixir  of  new-born  content, 
compounded  half  of  the  night  and  half  of  his 


ISABEL. 


63 


hopes,  surged  in  his  veins  and  warmed  his  heart, 
life  seemed  a  better  gift  than  he  had  thought  it 
ever  could  be  again. 

After  his  dinner  he  went  to  a  cafe  in  the 
Boulevard,  rarely  sought  by  the  English-speak- 
ing part  of  his  present  world,  and,  wrapped  in 
his  overcoat,  sat  at  one  of  the  outside  tables  over 
a  petit  verve  and  a  cigar.  As  he  smoked  he  was 
joined  presently  by  a  former  attache  of  the 
American  Legation,  who  had  forsworn  diplo- 
macy for  commerce,  and  whose  lightness  of 
character  in  financial  affairs  was  excused  by  a 
perverid  generosity,  which  showed  that  his  per- 
petual pecuniary  difficulties  arose  mainly  from  a 
foolish  kind-heartedness. 

"  Hallo,  Bentley,  old  boy,"  cried  Linton, 
"  WHERE  have  you  been  ?  We  have  missed  you 
for  an  age.     Have  a  drink  ?     Eugene ! " 

Bentley  did  not  want  the  cognac,  though  he 
had  a  fine  contempt  for  the  PhilHstinism  which 
denied  it,  and  he  did  want  to  smoke  his  cigar  in 
a  quiet  retrospect  of  the  day.  But  he  did  not 
reject  the  offer,  nor  did  he  discourage  Linton, 
who,  in  his  own  language,  was  "  a  little  sprung." 

"  I  suppose  you  do  not  care  much  for  this 
tipple,  though  for  me  " — and  Linton  said  this 
unaffectedly  enough,  but  with  an  air  which,  with 
his  costume,  had  made  him  seem  foolish  and 


64 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


foreign  to  his  fellow-townsmen  when  he  was  last 
at  home, — "though,  for  me,  I  am  broke  and  can 
afford  nothing  but  spirits  of  some  sort  or  vin  bleu 
outside  the  Barriere.  Not  that  either  is  bad,  but 
you  are  a  nouveau,  Bentley,  You  do  not  remem- 
ber the  old  days ;  I  do,  though  I  was  only  a 
kid  then,  and  my  fond  papa  believed  I  was  ab- 
sorbing culture  over  here ;  the  days  when  the 
Belleville  contingent  used  to  sing,"  and  Linton 
absolutely  piped  up,  as  the  reedy  tenors  do  in  the 
cafes  chantants,  with  a  drawl  on  the  last  syllable 
of  each  line, — 

"  Pour  eviter  la  rage 
De  la  femme  dont  je  suis  I'epoux 
Je  trouve  dans  le  vin  a  quat'  sous, 
L'esperance  de  veuvage ; 
Venez,  venez,  sages  et  fous, 
Venez,  venez,  boire  avec  nous, 
Le  vin  a  quat'  sous." 

There  was  a  tall  gentleman  with  a  hooked 
nose,  snaky  locks,  a  ribbon  and  brilliantly  pol- 
ished boots  sitting  at  the  next  table,  who  mani- 
fested much  silent  displeasure  at  this  canzonet; 
but  Linton  "eyed  him  down  beautifully,"  as  he 
phrased  it,  and  so  complacently,  that  this  highly 
displeased  person  took  it  out  of  the  first  waiter 
who  approached  him. 

"  Of  course,  Bentley,"  airily  continued  the  un- 


ISABEL. 


65 


abashed  Linton, "  my  foolishness  don't  bother  you, 
and  do  you  know,  if  it  were  not  for  your  dislike  of 
a  scene,  I  wouldn't  mind  taking  a  rise  out  of  old 
Pouts  et  CJiaussees  over  there,  and  be  hanged  to 
his  sour  mug,  by  lilting  a  choice  bit  I  heard  at 
the  Bal  last  night.  But  I  am  saved  the  assault 
behold,  he  flies  !  " 

The  tall  gentleman  withdrew  to  a  more  distant 
table,  and  Linton,  who  was  always  ready  for  any 
sort  of  a  mild  row  where  he  fancied  himself  ag- 
grieved, and  could  forget  the  cause  even  more 
quickly,  said,  with  much  amusement, — 

"  But  I  say,  have  you  heard  the  news  ?  Have 
you  seen  the  evening  papers  ?  No  ? — Eugene  !  " 
When  the  waiter  brought  all  that  could  be  found 
to  this  reckless  distributor  of  pour-boires,  Linton 
pointed  out  in  each  an  advertisement  begging  a 
certain  C.  D.  to  return,  and  "  all  would  be  forgiven." 

"There's  a  deuce  of  a  row  about  this,  for, 
as  every  body  knows,  C.  D.  is  the  charming 
but  fiery  Camille  Desmoulins,  who,  for  years,  has 
been  the  evil  fortune  of  men  whose  roles  are  star 
ones.  Just  now  she  has  almost  been  the  ruin 
of  Papeete  Hoffman,  as  he  is  called,  and  the  in- 
sensate young  fool  having  lost  her,  and  being 
afraid,  it  is  said,  of  certain  threats  she  made, 
has  given  up  the  detectives,  and  is  advertising 
her  like  a  patent  soap." 
5 


66  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

"When  did  she  disappear?"  inquired  Bentley. 

"We  do  not  know.  I  met  Hoffman  over  a 
week  ago,  when  he  was  on  a  terrific  spree  with  a 
man  named  Brewer, — a  countryman  of  ours  fi-om 
Denver — and  he  was  then  lamenting  her  deser- 
tion in  bitter  though  alcoholic  tears." 

"When  were  these  advertisements  first  pub- 
lished ?  "  said  Bentley,  with  as  much  show  of  in- 
terest as  he  could  appear  to  take  in  Linton's  tale. 

"  These  endearing  enticements  to  the  obdurate 
C.  D.  have  been  here  for  three  days.  Curious,  is 
it  not,  and  all  the  good  fishes  there  are  in  this 
Parisian  sea.  Well,  it's  an  odd  world ;  and,  by 
the  way,  have  another  drink  ?  Oh,  I  beg  par- 
don !  Have  a  drink  ?  No  gentleman  ever  drinks 
another  anything.  Don't  smile,  that  is  an  old 
formula ;  parent,  Adam ;  period,  old  red  sand- 
stone ;  sentence,  death  by  hanging.  You  will 
not?  Well,  as  we  are  all  Germans  now — Auf 
Wiedersehen. 

The  joyous  and  frivolous  flaneur  departed, 
saluting,  and  being  greeted  by  many  persons 
in  the  throng  about  the  tables  and  on  the  pave- 
ment ;  and  as  he  answered  inquiries  and  parried 
thrusts  with  ready  wit  and  genial  courtesy  the 
smiles  which  followed,  showed  that  here,  at  least, 
the  idle  world,  took  at  its  best,  the  sunny  tem- 
perament it  liked  so  well. 


ISABEL. 


67 


As  he  passed  slowly  westward,  Bentley  watched 
him  with  a  smiling  envy,  and  though  he  knew  there 
was  no  place  for  Linton  in  any  world  that  he  would 
create,  still  he  could  not  deny  his  usefulness  as  rep- 
resenting Youth,  Hope,  Faith,  Money,  Paris,  Para- 
dise. 

Then  Bentley,  for  his  cigar  was  aglow  with  a 
brightness  which  sent  out  wreathing  fairy  clouds 
wherein  he  saw  a  cheerier  vista,  took  comfort  in 
the  thought  of  the  work  he  yet  might  do.  He 
dreamed  of  possibilities  hitherto  put  behind  as 
the  follies  of  a  mad  ambition,  and  as  his  fancies 
multiplied  they  shaped  themselves  about  one 
great  hope  that  his  lips  had  never  dared  to 
whisper. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  found  it  was 
time  to  be  going ;  but,  as  he  paused  a  moment 
to  scan  the  journals,  he  saw  in  each  the  briefest 
mention  of  the  inquiry  at  the  Morgue,  and  in 
all  the  name  of  Marion  Darlington  was  curiously 
misspelled. 

When  Bentley  left  his  cab,  near  the  Rue  de 
Versailles,  and  mounted  the  stairs  of  Mrs.  Har- 
ber's  hotel,  he  confessed  to  an  expectancy  of  joy 
which  revealed  how  much  the  responsibilities  he 
had  assumed  were  allied  with  another ;  for  apart 
from  his  sincere  liking  for  his  hostess  and  her 
amiable  granddaughters  he  had  come  to  this  re- 


68  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

ception  to  meet,  again  and  after  an  absence  of 
six  months,  Henry  Marsden's  daughter. 

The  rooms  were  uncomfortably  crowded,  and 
he  was  a  Httle  delayed  in  making  his  bow,  by  a 
flood  of  visitors  which  overwhelmed  and  sur- 
prised him,  as  it  was  unusual  in  these  somewhat 
exclusive  seas,  where  the  hostess  believed  she 
was  not  only  a  widowed  Amphitrite,  but  all  the 
other  little  gods  and  goddesses  in  one.  When 
she  saw  Bentley,  her  bright,  black  eyes  sparkled 
merrily,  and  she  received  him  with  a  warmth 
which  was  effusive.  He  felt  grateful  for  this 
marked  reception,  though  it  would  have  been  less 
consoling  had  he  known  that  it  afforded  her  a 
much  desired  opportunity  of  keeping  in  petulant 
waiting,  an  unsufferable  person  of  high  official 
position,  whose  self-esteem  was  so  out  of  pro- 
portion to  his  merits  as  to  have  the  measure  of  a 
superior  impertinence. 

Bentley  moving  quietly  amid  the  throng, 
found  his  way  between  the  elbows  and  the  trains 
with  a  coolness  which  accentuated  his  air  of  per- 
fect familiarity  with  such  scenes.  It  so  happened 
that  he  knew  many  of  the  men  and  women  about 
him,  and,  in  his  pilgrimage  through  the  rooms, 
he  emitted,  to  their  greetings,  calm  phrases  of 
salutation  which  cooled  the  air.  Seemingly 
intent  upon  nothing,  he  was  in  truth,  searching 


ISABEL. 


69 


anxiously  for  Miss  Marsden.  At  last  he  dis- 
covered her  in  a  corner  somewhat  shut  off  from 
the  ball-room  by  a  friendly  screen  of  foliage, 
where  she  was  listening  to  an  old  gentleman, 
Avho,  while  talking  volubly  about  nothing,  was 
thinking  longingly  of  the  buffet  As  Bentley 
went  toward  her,  the  elderly  person  beamed  upon 
him  as  the  man  in  the  gap,  and  after  mumbhng 
the  commonplaces  with  which  he  always  covered 
such  retreats,  this  ancient  dandy  made  his  way 
jauntily  to  the  inner  room. 

Bentley  saw  that  this  departure  was  a  mutual 
relief,  and  accepted  the  cordial  greeting  Miss 
Marsden  gave  him,  not  so  much  as  a  manifes- 
tation of  her  special  gladness  at  the  meeting,  but 
as  a  votive  offering  for  her  rescue  in  a  season  of 
sore  distress.  As  she  stood  there,  framed  by 
the  greenery  of  the  plants,  Bentley  thought  he 
had  never  seen  her  looking  so  beautiful,  and  he 
half  regretted  the  haste  that  had  lost  him  the 
opportunity  of  studying  for  a  while,  and  from  a 
little  distance,  the  pictures  which  she  made. 

Her  figure  was  straight,  lithe,  and  of  true  pro- 
portions ;  her  neck  rose  in  a  graceful  curve  and 
proudly  sustained  a  head  which,  by  its  poise 
alone,  gave  an  immediate  impression  of  her 
beauty;  her  coloring  was  as  fresh  and  fair  as 
summer    roses,   and    her    face  was  graced  by 


70 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


those  gifts  which  give  to  brilliancy  its  sweetness 
and  to  worth  its  innocence;  for  every  feature 
told  of  nobility,  dignity,  intelligence,  purity,  and 
gentle  courtesy.  Her  voice  was  soft  and  beauti- 
fully modulated,  her  intonation  flowing  in  a  rich 
fullness,  mellowed  by  broad  vowels  and  un- 
marred  by  jarring  note,  and  of  a  quietness  which 
saved  it  from  the  affectation  that  mistakes  the 
faults  of  a  social  clique  for  the  stamps  of  breed- 
ing. Her  blue  eyes  looked  into  your  own  with 
a  widespread  openness,  which  revealed  the  deeps 
no  thoughts  of  evil  had  ever  dimmed ;  her  smile 
gladdened  as  the  sunshine  of  cool,  bright  morn- 
ings, and  to  meet  her  was  like  journeying  into 
the  heart  of  spring. 

Without  effort,  and  often  without  knowledge, 
she  was  one  of  those  who  win  the  honest  de- 
votion of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and 
in  a  confiding  sincerity  she  gave  to  all  an  equal 
liking  and  no  more.  In  everything  which  makes 
the  sweetness  and  delight  of  womanhood,  she 
was  womanly,  and  others,  jealous  of  her  success, 
who  could  not  deny  this  charm,  confessed  in 
moments  of  self-abasement  that,  after  all,  the  crown 
of  woman  is  womanhood.  To-night,  as  Bent- 
ley  always  remembered,  she  was  dressed  in  white, 
which  was  relieved  by  a  corsage  of  sun-flecked 
Marechal  Niels ;  and  spanning  the  soft  lace  which 


ISABEL. 


71 


wreathed  her  bosom,  as  silver  mists  at  sunset 
sleep  on  tinted  clouds,  she  wore  an  open-work 
Spanish  brooch,  which  displayed  in  quaint  and 
picturesque  lettering,  the  word  Ysabel. 

"  I  heard  of  your  arrival  only  to-day,"  said 
Bentley,  "  and  I  need  not  say  how  glad  we  are, 
for  you  have  brought  the  spring,  and  the  thanks 
of  tout-Paris  should  be  a  compensation  for  this 
exile  from  the  South." 

This  was  unusual,  even  such  a  commonplace 
little  compliment,  in  Bentley,  and,  smiling 
brightly,  she  answered, — 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  do  not  regret  the  South  ;  we  are 
birds  of  passage,  you  know." 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  in  the  full  tide 
of  reminiscent  talk ;  this,  on  Bentley's  part,  to 
hide  the  joy  the  meeting  brought  him,  and  on 
hers,  to  hold  the  happy  mood  which  revealed 
his  character  in  a  newer  light. 

Their  acquaintance  was  not  an  old  one;  for 
though  Bentley  had  known  Marsden  for  many 
years,  it  was  only  in  the  last  summer  he  had 
met  Isabel.  He  had  been  idling  away  his  days 
in  Holland,  and,  for  pure  lack  of  intention  in  any 
other  direction,  had  gone  to  Denmark.  Here,  at 
Marsden's  request,  he  went  with  them  on  a  six 
weeks'  trip  to  the  North  Cape ;  later,  there  had 
been  a  chance  meeting  in  the  Engadine,  and  then 


72 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


they  separated,  leaving  him  with  a  sense  of  lone- 
liness which  was  a  new  factor  in  his  life. 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  place,"  he  said,  "this  Europe; 
and  I  half  regret  to  go  away,  even  for  a  little 
while, — one  can  be  so  lazy  here  without  reproach 
or  effort, — but  in  a  few  weeks  I  may  have  to  leave 
for  India." 

"And  we  are  on  our  way  home,"  she  replied. 

Bentley  had  not  known  this,  and,  with  a  disap- 
pointment which  he  did  not  try  to  conceal,  he  an- 
swered,— 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  as  I  had  hoped  to 
meet  you  next  summer  in  England.  At  the  worst 
mine  is  but  a  flying  trip,  and  I  confess  it  will  be 
a  regret  not  to  find  you  here  upon  my  return." 
The  sadness  of  the  separation  depressed  him, 
for  he  asked,  despondently,  "Are  you  glad  to 
go  home?" 

She  replied  with  earnestness,  "Naturally,  for 
I  have  longed  these  many  months  for  the  freer 
air  and  wider  commons  of  America.  To  me 
there  is  no  place  like  it,  though,  of  course,  I 
quite  understand  in  many  ways  what  foreigners 
say  of  it  and  of  us.  But,  indeed,  I  am  so  glad 
to  return,  that  I  hope  never  to  come  abroad 
again." 

"  You  have  been  in  Rome  ? "  he  inquired, 
lendincr  himself  to  her  enthusiasm. 


ISABEL. 


73 


"  Yes,  this  winter ;  and  for  the  first  time  I  did 
not  drink  of  the  Fountain  of  Trevi." 

Though  Bentley  smiled  at  the  quickness  which 
had  solved  his  question,  he  was  touched  by  the 
mal  dii  pays  trembling  on  her  lips,  and  by  the 
tears  which  glistened  in  her  eyes,  as  diamonds 
in  the  depths  of  encircling  sapphires.  He  knew 
she  was  abandoning  of  her  own  will,  and  gladly, 
social  opportunities  which  mean  much  to  women, 
and  turning  to  another  vein,  he  said :  "  Then  you 
are  safe,  and,  if  it  is  a  comfort  to  hear  this,  let  me 
tell  you  we  will  miss  you ;  not,"  he  added,  thought- 
fully, "because  there  are  so  few  here, — I  mean 
among  the  exiles, — who  have  even  a  sentimental 
fancy  for  home,  but  because  life  will  be  different 
for  many  who  cannot  follow." 

Marsden  joined  them  at  this  moment,  and  with 
some  excitement  began  airing  his  opinions  of  the 
American  colony ;  Bentley  laughed  quietly  at  the 
tremendous  condemnation  the  harangue  seemed 
to  imply,  and  said,  as  he  was  about  to  go :  "  Well, 
this  house  in  any  event  I  like,  and,  as  I  must  say 
good-bye,  you  may  be  sure  I,  at  least,  will  be  as 
sincere  as  its  hospitality  deserves." 

As  he  came  from  the  room  where  he  had  left 
his  overcoat,  Marsden  stopped  him. 

"  We  are  going  also,  Bentley.  By  the  way, 
have  you  read  the  letters  ?  " 


74 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"  Yes,  carefully." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  them?" 

"  I  think,"  Bentley  replied,  not  caring  to  give 
a  more  definite  answer,  "the  woman  was  de- 
mented, and  that  you  have  acted  with  discretion." 

"  You  have  said  nothing  to  my  daughter,  in 
any  way,  of  this  affair?"  inquired  Marsden. 

"  Nothing ;  but  can  you  come  to  my  rooms 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  ?  yes,  with  pleasure." 

"  Shall  we  say  at  four  ?  " 

Marsden  thought  a  moment  and  answered : 
"  I  regret  not — ^but  can  you  make  it  five  o'clock  ? 
Yes  ?     Well,  expect  me,  without  fail." 

Bentley  turned  to  go,  and  Marsden,  whose 
manner  was  certainly  very  good  when  he  cared 
to  make  the  effort,  hesitated,  and  then  exclaimed, 
with  a  pleading  which  he  could  not  control, — 

"  Bentley,  I  feel  this  affair  terribly,  mainly  now, 
as  it  seems  to  be  without  remedy.  I  fear  it  for 
my  daughter's  sake,  because  I  realize  what  this 
suicide  would  mean,  should  she  ever  hear  of  it. 
Help  us  out  of  it,  will  you  not  ?  " 

As  Clifford  Bentley  slowly  walked  down  the 
street  in  the  cool  starlight,  he  saw,  framed  in  a 
carriage  window  and  making  sunshine  in  his 
night,  the  sweet  face  of  Isabel  Marsden,  and  he 
knew  he  would  serve  her  to  the  end. 


CHAPTER  V. 


A   QUEER   LOT. 


WHEN  Girard  came  the  next  morning,  Bent- 
ley  learned  that  all  arrangements  had  been 
made  with  the  arrondisement  agent  of  the  Pom- 
pes  Funebres  for  burying  Mrs.  Darlington  in  Mont- 
martre.  The  detective  had  nothing  new  to  report, 
and  seemed  to  be  disturbed  by  the  inscrutability 
of  several  mysteries  which,  of  late,  were  reflect- 
ing unfavorably  upon  the  reputation  of  his  corps. 

Bentley  asked  the  police  theory  of  the  adver- 
tisements which  implored  C.  D.  to  return,  and 
found  that  Camille  Desmoulins,  the  subject  of  the 
inquiry,  was,  as  Linton  had  said,  a  demi-mondaine , 
whose  history  was  written  in  short  paragraphs, 
and  punctuated  with  exclamation  points.  Girard 
knew  the  salient  points  of  her  record  thoroughly. 

She  was  a  child  of  the  dregs,  born,  heaven 
only  knew  where,  and  brought  up,  heaven  only 
could  tell  why,  by  Mere  Blinder,  the  chiffoniere. 
After  being  graduated  from  the  gutters  of  the  Rue 
de  la  Chapelle,  she  was  sold  for  an  obolus  to  a 

75 


76  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

young  thief,  who  starved  and  beat  her,  until  one 
day  she  betrayed  to  the  police  his  share  in  a  crime 
which  sent  him  to  Cayenne  for  life. 

She  then  lived  as  these  Pariahs  exist  every- 
where, and  finally,  at  a  Barriere  Ball,  danced  her- 
self into  the  affections  of  a  tradesman  who  gave 
her  a  decent  training,  lavished  the  profit  and  capi- 
tal of  his  shop  upon  her,  and  when  she  deserted 
him  for  a  Bohemian  journalist,  killed  himself  out- 
side her  door.  Girard  remembered  her  perfectly, 
and  told,  with  an  unctuous  appreciation  of  suc- 
cessful villainy,  how  she  had  risen  on  her  ladder, 
step  by  step,  till  at  last  a  day  came  when  she  played 
no  inconsiderable  part  in  the  drama  of  that  lesser 
society  which  sometimes  rules  the  greater. 

She  was,  the  Agent  said,  the  worst  woman  he 
had  ever  known — one  of  those  veritable  daughters 
of  the  devil  who,  with  the  demureness  of  a  rosiere, 
and  the  face  of  a  saint,  ruin  more  families  than  the 
worst  of  fraudulent  bankers.  The  golden  days  of 
her  triumphs  were  amid  the  sympathetic  surround- 
ings of  the  empire's  dissolution,  but  of  late  her  star 
had  waned. 

For  over  a  year  she  had  held  in  the  meshes  of 
her  deviltries  young  Hoffman,  the  son  of  a  mer- 
chant, who  had  left  an  enormous  fortune,  made 
by  a  trade  monopoly  with  the  Marquesas  and  Ta- 
hiti.    The  menage  had  not  been  an  unhappy  one, 


A  QUEER  LOT,  yy 

until  this  quarrel,  which,  though  not  the  first,  by 
any  means,  was,  Girard  believed,  their  last.  What 
had  brought  it  about,  no  one  knew,  but  it  must 
have  been  most  serious,  for,  as  Camille  left  the 
house,  she  swore  by  one  of  the  oaths  which  these 
women  keep  for  a  final  restraint  and  seldom  vio- 
late, that  she  would  never  see  him  nor  his  world 
again. 

Hoffman  had  heard  these  threats  before,  but 
only  when  they  were  shrieked  or  sobbed  in  the 
idleness  of  an  anger  which  expected  consolation, 
and,  for  a  time,  he  did  not  worry  over  her  disap- 
pearance. He  was  a  fat,  blonde  Alsatian,  with 
merry  blue  eyes,  the  face  of  a  dissipated  cherub, 
and  the  heart  of  a  fairy  godmother ;  indeed,  he 
was  much  too  good  a  fellow  to  sow  his  wild  oats 
for  such  a  reaping,  and,  in  the  end,  proved  to  be 
a  regenerate  and  shining  mark.  He  had  a  sin- 
cere liking  for  Camille,  though  a  little  wearied 
by  her  temper ;  and  she,  so  her  rivals  confessed 
with  pity,  really  cared  more  for  him  than  for  the 
others — the  dozens — she  had  blown  from  her 
fingers. 

He  sulked  for  a  week,  gambled  beyond  any 
sort  of  prudence,  and  lost  a  considerable  sum  at 
baccarat  to  that  mysterious  Captain  Marker 
Blunt,  late  (so  his  cards  said)  of  H.  B.  M.'s 
Fourteenth  West  India  Regiment,  whose  good 


^8  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

luck  was  as  unquestionable  as  his  skill  in  hit- 
ting the  bull's  eye  at  any  number  of  paces  with 
any  weapon.  When  Hoffman  felt  satisfied  that 
both  cards  and  love  were  equally  unlucky,  he 
settled  down  to  a  premeditated  dissipation,  which 
was  cheerless ;  he  drank  potations  fathoms  deep 
— not  only  straight  and  mixed,  but  interspersed 
with  reviving  cocktails,  compounded  by  a  gifted 
acquaintance  from  Denver,  named  Brewer. 

Of  course,  this  upset  his  weak  and  good- 
natured  head,  until,  finally,  he  reached  a  stage 
where  delirium  tremens  awaited  complacently 
the  next  bout.  As  usual,  Brewer  was  unim- 
paired— for  his  capacity  was  large,  and  the  dis- 
cretion which  confined  him  to  one  tipple,  great ; 
so,  while  Hoffman  was  dimly  seeing  the  pre- 
paratory angle  worms,  which  would  develop  into 
the  conventional  snakes.  Brewer  was  as  fresh  as 
the  breezes  fanning  his  native  mountain-tops,  and 
as  thirsty  as  the  alkali  plains  lapping  their  foothills. 

But  Brewer  had,  as  he  boasted,  "  sand  and 
sense,"  so,  corralling  Hoffman,  he  dragged  him 
to  the  Russian  Baths,  and  had  him  steamed, 
rubbed,  kneaded,  scrubbed,  and  generally  inun- 
dated into  a  state  of  comparative  sobriety.  He 
took  his  patient  home,  bribed  the  servant  with  a 
napoleon  to  swear  there  was  no  more  liquor  in 
the  world,  and  left  him  to  a  sleep  soothed  by 


A  QUEER  LOT.  yg 

bromide,  and  blessed  with  the  expectancy  of 
awakening  to  a  "  Sure  cure  for  Jim-jams  in  the 
earlier  stages" — the  prescription  for  which  Brewer 
had  received  from  a  friend,  whose  experience  in 
these  matters — personal  and  ancillary — was  the 
most  profound  in  Colorado. 

With  sobriety  came  the  remembrances  of  his 
lost  Camille,  and  Hoffman  rushed  by  the  first 
and  fastest  train  to  Normandy.  He  had  often 
listened  to  the  pathetic  story  of  her  early  life. 
The  happy  village,  the  companions  of  her  child- 
hood, the  green — ^blithe  with  song  and  dance; 
Basil,  the  inn-keeper,  and  Jacques,  his  son ;  the 
conscription,  vows  and  tears ;  and  the  parting 
salute  of  the  soldier  as  he  stood  in  the  sunset 
on  the  hill  and  waved  his  last  good-bye.  Then 
the  tempter  from  the  wood-embowered  chateau 
on  the  mountain ;  the  ghost-haunted  woodland 
walks;  the  little  gift;  the  gathering  of  wondering 
peasants  at  Basils,  and  the  short  dispatch  which 
told  how  Jacques  had  died  at  Gravelotte,  with 
his  face  to  the  foe  and  a  prayer  for  her.  More 
tears  and  more  despair,  followed  by  vows  of  love 
which  could  never  die;,  the  stern  papa  looking 
down  from  the  centuries  of  family  portraits,  and 
the  haughty  mamma  sheathed  in  satin,  which 
rang  as  the  winds  from  the  seas  in  the  forests 
of  Barbesac.     The   flight;    the  deserted   ingle- 


8o  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

nook;  the  search;  the  moaning  mamma,  and 
Paris.  Desertion ;  the  heart  aweary  of  life,  hungry 
for  death;  then  Paradise,  Hope,  and  Hoffman. 
She  told  it  all,  as  Watteau  sketched,  as  Van  Loo 
painted,  as  Crebillon  the  Gay  dreamed. 

Our  weeping  Alsatian  found  the  village  of 
Barbesac,  and  nobody  who  had  ever  heard  of 
Camille,  except  that,  five  years  ago,  she  had 
been  at  its  castle  with  a  gay  party,  whose  eccen- 
tricities had  become  a  legend  of  Black  Magic 
in  that  peaceful  land.  Hoffman  returned  to 
Paris,  disconsolate,  but  not  disenchanted,  and 
put  the  affair  into  the  hands  of  a  bureau  of 
private  detectives. 

"  But  these  apprentices,"  Girard  growled,  with 
professional  jealousy,  "these  dolts  so  mismanaged 
their  trust,  that  last  evening  M.  Hoffman  was  com- 
pelled to  seek  the  regular  police." 

The  advertisements  were  immediately  discon- 
tinued, and  through  systematic  search  the  woman 
was  traced  from  her  pretty  house  in  the  Champs, 
to  a  dingy  cabaret  in  the  dreariest  cul-de-sac  of 
the  Quartier  Latin;  and  there  she  disappeared  as 
if  the  earth  had  swallowed  her,  "and  by  to-mor- 
row," groaned  Girard,  "  those  blockheads  of  the 
private  Bureaus,  who  are  nearly  as  bad  as  our 
imbeciles  of  the  Police  des  Moeurs,  will  be  stick- 
ing their  tongues  in  their  cheeks  at  us." 


A  QUEER  LOT.  8l 

"  When  did  this  woman  leave  Hoffman  ? " 
asked  Bentley, 

"  About  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  third." 

"  You  say  she  went  to  a  wine-shop  south  of 
the  river ;  was  this  the  Cabaret  Duplan,  at  the 
end  of  a  mean  little  street,  not  far  from  the  Bou- 
levard I'Hopital  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  regularly  on  this  duty,  but  let  me 
read  the  facts,"  responded  Girard,  with  a  sudden 
alacrity,  as  he  took  out  a  shabby  note-book,  which 
entombed  the  skeletons  of  more  tragedies  than 
all  the  poets  from  Euripides  to  Shakespeare 
have  sung. 

"  Mais  oui — yes ;  the  Cabaret  Duplan,  that  is 
right.  Ah  !  "  he  said,  for  Bentley  in  the  narra- 
tive, had  told  him  nothing  of  this  part  of  his 
story ; — "  and  so,  M.  le  Colonel,  you  were  the 
foreigner  of  whom  we  could  find  no  trace.  You 
left  there  soon  after  eight;  you  recall,  perhaps,  that 
you  spoke  to  a  Sergeant  de  Ville,  and  then  turned 
toward  the  river.  True — it  is  all  plain — this 
was  the  night  of  your  adventure  on  the  bridge ; 
when  you  left  him,  the  police  officer  walked  down 
the  street,  saw  this  woman  in  the  cabaret,  and 
twenty  moments  later  was  called  from  his  station 
to  stop  a  row  in  the  Brasserie  Au  Petit  Gamin. 
When  he  returned  to  his  post,  the  woman  had 
gone,  and  with  her  all  our  clues." 
6 


82  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

"  I  spoke  to  the  Sergeant,  as  you  said,  and  it 
must  have  been  at  the  very  time  he  was  at  the 
Brasserie,  that  the  woman — the  two  women — 
came  over  the  bridge," 

"  Could  Camille  Desmoulins  have  been  one 
of  these,  and  if  so,  which  ?  "  wondered  Girard, 
— "Well,  it  is  a  clue,  and  I  thank  you  in  the 
name  of  the  Agency.  But  with  your  permission, 
I  will  ask  one  more  question, — Was  the  woman 
drinking  when  you  saw  her  ?  Yes  ?  Ah !  that 
was  her  habit  at  times,  and  it  made  her  crazy. 
She  poisoned  a  man  once,  we  all  believe,  though 
we  could  not  prove  the  crime.  She  was  mad  for 
a  week,  and  they  feared  it  would  be  the  insane 
asylum  in  the  end.  Alive  or  dead,  let  me  tell 
you  this.  Colonel  Bentley,  she  was  and  is  a 
devil.  She  was  a  monster,  none  so  bad  in  my 
experience,  and  with  the  face  of  an  angel ;  and 
those  always  are  the  most  terrible." 

Soon  after  noon  a  simple  funeral  crawled  the 
steep  streets  of  Montmartre,  and  under  the  bright 
sunshine  of  an  unflecked  sky  Marion  Darling- 
ton was  buried.  When  it  was  all  over — and 
he  waited  until  the  very  last — Bentley  walked 
sadly  out  of  the  cemetery,  and  went,  aimlessly,  for 
a  long  stroll  to  the  hills  and  plains  where  the  de- 
fences of  the  city  lay. 

He  returned  at  four  o'clock  and  found  that  the 


A  QUEER  LOT.  83 

Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  had  forwarded  him, 
through  the  Legation,  the  manuscript  left  by  Mrs, 
DarHngton.  At  five  o'clock  Marsden  appeared, 
and  after  the  first  courtesies  had  passed,  Bentley 
said,  pointing  to  the  dead  woman's  letter, — 

"  The  story  is  now  complete ;  if  you  are  ready, 
we  will  go  over  this  sad  business  together." 

The  perpetual  impression  of  pain  and  discom- 
fort which  Marsden  gave  was  intensified  to-day. 
He  always  saw  fit  to  go  out  in  search  of  misery, 
and  just  now,  was  toying  with  a  particularly 
sombre  Amaryllis,  who  was  moaning  in  the 
shade  of  a  vault.  In  his  present  mood  he 
would  have  started  in  fairly,  and  relieved  his 
mind  by  saying  something  disagreeably  per- 
sonal ;  but,  fortunately,  he  had  a  wholesome  re- 
spect for  Bentley,  and  resisted  the  craving.  He 
felt  that  this  friend  read  him  thoroughly,  for  with 
all  his  pretence  Marsden  was  shallow ;  he  was 
narrowed  to  a  stock  of  phrases,  which  were  as 
clear  cut — and  deep — as  intaglios,  but  as  these 
seemed  rare  to  the  common  and  passed  for  ob- 
jects of  curiosity,  he  had  obtained  a  fictitious 
reputation  for  cleverness.  That  Bentley  meas- 
ured him  accurately,  he  was  certain,  and  therefore 
his  choice  stings  were  saved  for  others  who  took 
him  at  his  own  valuation. 

He  fumbled  with  the  letters,  shuffled  his  chair 


84  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

into  the  best  light,  and  in  an  aggressive,  irritable 
way  told  of  his  first  relations  with  Mrs.  Darling- 
ton. They  all  came  through  Philip  Catlin.  "  This 
fellow,"  he  began,  thumping  the  table  with  his 
wrinkled  forefinger,  "who  has  made  the  trouble, 
was,  to  my  mind,  a  confounded  cad.  Yes,  I  know, 
Bentley,  he  was  your  friend,  and  is  dead,  and 
we  ought  to  govern  our  feelings  by  a  respect  for 
cheap  mortuary  philosophy,  and  all  that,  but  I 
must  be  honest,  and, — well,  let  us  compromise 
and  say — Catlin  was  a  poor  lot.  We  met  him  first 
at  Saint  Augustine,  some  time  early  in — let  me 
see,"  he  counted  his  fingers,  "  '79,  '78,  'yy.  Yes, 
some  time  about  the  New  Year  of  1 877. 

"  I  had  a  half  acquaintance  with  him,  and  knew 
vaguely  that  he  had  been  badly  caught  in  the  Street 
during  the  whirlwind  of  '73.  However,  here  he 
was  in  Florida  instead  of  tiying  to  earn  a  respect- 
able living,  in  perfect  health,  and  yet  moving 
about  in  a  feeble,  shiftless  idleness  that  set  my 
teeth  on  edge.  And  then,  confound  it,  he  was 
forever  in  the  way, — that  is,  in  my  way, — so  much 
so,  that  he  took  all  the  comfort  out  of  existence. 
He  would  hang  around  for  hours,  doing  nothing 
but  dreaming,  always  agreeing  with  me  as  he  did 
with  every  other  shade  of  opinion,  and  always  in 
a  feeble-minded  way,  which  gave  him  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  *  so  gentlemanly.' 


A  QUEER  LOT.  g^ 

"  How  do  you  suppose,  my  good  friend  Bent- 
ley,  how  do  you  suppose  it  ended  ?  He  wanted 
to  marry  my  daughter !  Fell  in  love  with  her,  as 
he  was  pleased  to  call  it.  I  know  you  think  I 
am  telling  this  in  a  coarse  way,  but  it  is  the  truth. 
He  was  man  enough  to  see  me  first,  and  to  take 
my  emphatic  refijsal  in  a  style  that  was  not 
undignified.  The  next  day,  to  my  infinite  relief, 
he  went  away,  after  announcing  publicly  that  he 
was  going  up  the  Ocklawaha  on  a  second  trip. 
Fancy  anybody  who  is,  presumably,  low  in  his 
mind,  making  a  second  time  that  awful  trip,  and 
in  February,  when  Florida  is  black  with  the 
hordes  of  wild  Western  tourists. 

"  My  daughter  took  his  departure  quite  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  for  she  never  suspected  his  feelings, 
and  I  was  delighted  to  see  that  she  played  tennis 
in  the  Fort  and  went  out  in  the  cat-boats  with  as 
much  zest  as  ever.  This  did  me  a  world  of  good, 
for  the  truth  is,  Catlin  had  become  a  tremendous 
nuisance." 

Bentley  listened  with  increasing  annoyance, 
for  Marsden  was  telling  a  sad  story  brutally,  and 
was  hard  with  the  dead  man  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  he  had  ventured  to  love  Isabel  in  a 
manly  straightforward  way.  He  began  to  be- 
lieve this  battered  old  broker  was  without  a  heart, 
and  that  he  valued  more  how  things  looked,  than 


86  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

what  they  meant,  where  they  lead,  or  what  useful 
end  to  humanity  their  accomplishment  might 
serve. 

But  in  this  he  misjudged  Marsden.  It  is  true 
that  this  dissatisfied,  selfish  creature  would  have 
said  his  prayers  by  proxy  and  thought  himself 
quits  with  Heaven  for  any  benefit  received,  but 
Isabel  was  his  world,  and  in  an  irritable,  though 
a  perfectly  loyal  way,  he  endeavored  by  unselfish 
care  to  make  amends  for  his  neglect  of  her  dead 
mother. 

In  June  of  the  same  year  the  Marsdens  sailed 
for  Europe.  As  nothing  in  the  meantime  had 
been  heard  of  Catlin,  the  irascible  father's  anger 
and  surprise  were  not  without  some  reason  when, 
one  afternoon,  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  he  beheld 
the  gentleman  standing  lazily  within  the  barrier 
rope  of  a  mountebank,  and  watching  with  up- 
roarious joy  the  woes  of  Polichinelle. 

Catlin  did  not  see  them  often  at  this  season, 
though  he  was  zealous  in  the  endeavor ;  but  when 
they  returned  to  Paris  in  October,  he  was  soon 
mooning  around  Isabel  in  the  old  fashion,  while, 
ostensibly,  very  busy  collecting  evidence  for  the 
French  Spoliation  Claimants. 

Marsden's  treatment,  even  from  his  own  ac- 
count, must  have  been  a  delightful  study  in  bliz- 
zards, and  Catlin's  cheerful  acceptance  developed 


A  QUEER  LOT.  87 

a  latent  torridlty  of  temperament  that  was  phe- 
nomenal. 

In  January  the  Marsdens  went  to  Nice,  and  later 
to  Pau,  where  they  passed  a  delightful  winter,  and 
when,  in  the  spring,  they  returned  to  Paris,  Cat- 
lin  was  still  there,  though  it  was  obvious  he  was 
having  a  severe  struggle  with  the  Claims,  and  was 
more  or  less  down  at  heels,  materially  and  phys- 
ically. Marsden  met  him  by  chance  one  day,  and 
gave  him  a  fishy  hand  in  return  for  the  effusive 
warmth  with  which  Catlin  greeted  him.  He  asked 
delightedly  after  Miss  Marsden,  and,  without  the 
slightest  preface  or  pretence,  said,  as  they  sepa- 
rated,— 

"  You  see  I  am  not  changed  in  the  least,  Mr. 
Marsden ;  I  shall  never  change,  and  if  persistency 
will  do  it,  I  shall  succeed  in  the  end." 

"  Somebody  told  me  Catlin  had  been  drinking 
more  than  was  good  for  him,"  continued  Mars- 
den; "but  I  do  not  believe  this  was  true.  I 
noticed  a  certain  unsteadiness,  a  want  of  method, 
a  wildness, — as  if  he  were  being  pursued  by  a 
terrible  fate  he  could  not  escape, — but  no  signs 
of  dissipation.  Though  he  did  not  go  about 
much,  some  old  friends  of  his  mother  asked  him 
at  times  to  their  parties,  and  we  occasionally  saw 
him. 

"After  returning  from  our  rambles  last  summer, 


88  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

we  met  him  again.  His  manner  had  entirely 
changed,  and  there  was  no  longer  a  question  that 
he  was  in  sore  straits ;  it  was  evident,  too,  he  had 
taken  to  dissipation  in  some  form. 

"I  pitied  him, — 'pon  my  soul  I  did,  Bentley, — and 
when,  after  putting  myself  to  considerable  incon- 
venience by  interfering  in  an  affair  which  did 
not  affect  me,  I  offered  to  make  deiinite  arrange- 
ments for  his  return  home,  he  ungratefully  and 
most  impertinently  said, — 

"  *  Thank  you,  no.  I  am  here  for  a  purpose 
which  you  understand ;  and  it  is,  after  all,  simply 
a  question  between  my  devotion  and  your  ob- 
stinacy,— I  mean  your  objections,  I  am  satisfied 
that  when  your  daughter  learns  how  truly  and 
unselfishly,  in  the  midst  of  horrible  sufferings  and 
self-denials  you  cannot  measure,  I  have  cared  for 
her,  she  will  pity  me ;  this,  by  association,  I  hope, 
— and  I  am  willing  to  take  my  chances, — will  ripen 
into  a  stronger  feeling.' 

"  I  could  have  kicked  him  for  his  cool  impu- 
dence, but,  Bentley,  there  was  something  in  his 
manner  which  made  me  respect  him  then  more 
than  ever  before. 

"  I  never  saw  him  again.  In  January  we  went 
to  Nice,  and  the  day  after  my  arrival  I  received 
this  letter,  which  had  followed  me  for  two 
months." 


A  QUEER  LOT.  89 

He  took  up  the  letter  marked  No.  i,  and  read 
it  slowly, — 

"  126  Baltimore  St.,  Philadelphia,  Penn. 

"  November  2d,  1878. 

"  Dear  Sir  : — The  unaccountable  disappearance  of  Philip 
Catlin  has  awakened  so  much  serious  anxiety  that  I  am  induced 
to  ask  you,  as  being  in  the  best  position  to  know,  if  you  will 
send  the  latest  news  in  your  possession  to  the  above  address,  and 
oblige,  "  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Marion  Darlington." 

This  was  in  the  same  handwriting  as  the  note 
received  by  Bentley  on  the  second  of  April. 

"  I  answered  this,"  resumed  Marsden,  "  and,  as 
I  thought  under  the  circumstances,  with  great 
civility.  We  had  not  seen  Catlin  since  October, 
and  I  put  this  as  clearly  as  I  knew  how,  but  with 
so  little  success,  that  three  weeks  afterward  I  was 
forwarded,  by  my  bankers  in  Paris,  the  letter, 
which  is  marked  No.  2, — 

"  Paris,  January  28th,  1879. 

"  Sir  : — Philip  Catlin  is  currently  reported  to  be  betrothed  to  your 
daughter ;  some  say,  they  are  secretly  married.  I  do  not  believe 
either  report,  for  he  is  incapable  of  an  act  so  dastardly,  of  a  want 
of  faith  so  dishonorable  to  us  both.  But  I  have  also  learned  that 
if  there  be  the  slightest  truth  in  these  charges,  the  reasons  for  the 
secrecy  lie  with  you. 

"  I  have  endeavored  to  find  him  everywhere,  but  in  vain.  He 
is  poor  and  powerless.     To  disappear,  save  by  death,  one  must  be 


QO  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

neither ;  and  I  can  not  resist  the  belief  that  you  are  primarily 
accountable  for  his  absence,  and  this  in  your  daughter's  behalf. 

"  You  have  money,  friends  and  influence ;  I  am  poor,  alone 
and  powerless.  You  must  find  him  or  take  the  consequences,  for 
the  burden  of  my  sorrow  is  too  great  to  bear  without  hope.  You 
can  give  me  peace ;  I  can  bring  you  trouble.  If  I  were  not  des- 
perate I  would  prefer  the  former ;  as  it  is,  I  am  careless  as  to  the 
issue. 

"  You  may,  in  a  calm  philosophy  of  bloodless  scorn,  call  me 
melodramatic  and  turn  me  over  to  the  police.  But  you  dare  not, 
and,  I  warn  you,  not  as  a  threat,  but  as  a  light  to  guide  you,  that 
I  have  sworn  Philip  Catlin's  fate  shall  be  your  daughter's." 

"  I  know  that  this  is  hardly  the  way  to  approach  a  man  of  the 
world,  nor  would  I  do  so  save  for  my  sore  trouble  and  for  the 
knowledge  that  behind  the  machine  lies  the  father.  I  have  not 
reached  your  pity,  but  I  can  and  shall,  through  her,  reach  your 
fear.  Not  only  by  her  present  ignorance,  but  by  the  faintly  re- 
membered griefs  of  her  childhood,  when  you  killed,  as  surely  as 
man  ever  murdered,  your  wife  and  her  mother,  not  by  blows,  but 
by  sugar-coated  horrors. 

"  It  is  your  association  with  that  mother,  who  is  a  dream  to 
her,  which  sanctifies  you ;  it  is  your  necessity  for  that  association 
which  arms  me." 

"  Shall  it  be  peace  or  war  ?  I  am  not  stalking  as  a  tragedy 
queen,  nor  do  I  ask  a  favor.  I  am  a  wronged  woman,  and  it  is 
my  right,  as  the  affianced  wife  of  Philip  CatUn,  to  demand  this 
rehef." 

"  Marion  Darlington, 
"Henry  Marsden,  Esq.,  "26  Rue  St.  Pierre, 

"  Rue  Scribe,  "  near  the  Boulevard  Beaumarchais. 

«  Paris." 

Although  Bentley  knew  these  letters  by  heart, 
he  thought  it  best  Marsden  should  tell  the  story 


A  QUEER  LOT.  qI 

in  his  own  way.  But  at  this  point  he  doubted 
the  wisdom  of  his  judgment,  for  the  spell  of  the 
mad  creature's  threats,  now  so  impotent  and 
averted,  still  enchained  Marsden  with  a  power 
which  displayed  itself  in  an  emotion  that  over- 
mastered him. 

Then,  too,  he  realized  he  had  done  Marsden 
a  wrong,  and  that  this  mass  of  concentrated  sel- 
fishness loved  his  daughter  with  an  intensity  which 
was  undoubted,  even  though  its  strength  was 
drawn  from  the  expiation  owed  to  his  past.  In 
those  days  of  recklessness  it  had  been  a  pet 
aphorism  of  Marsden  that  the  land  of  marriage 
was  one  which  foreigners  would  invade  and  na- 
tives fain  escape ;  and  in  the  practices  which  he 
essayed  he  tried  to  still  the  self-reproaches  for 
his  escapes  by  the  successes  of  his  invasions.  So 
when  after  years  of  a  devotion  which  was  as 
beautiful  as  it  was  unrequited,  his  martyred  wife 
died,  Marsden  learned  with  a  sudden  affright  and 
an  awful  regret  how  much  this  uncomplaining 
woman  had  been  in  his  life. 

In  the  spring  time,  after  the  first  wooing  was 
over,  he  had  idly  pursued  the  selfish  desires  of  his 
days  so  long,  that  the  summer  died  untimely,  and 
there  was  for  him  no  leaf,  nor  grass,  nor  sheaf; 
and  when  the  fruitless  autumn  faded  in  the  win- 
ter's snow,  he  turned,  in  his  season  of  despair, 


92 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


with  a  wild  repentance  to  the  girl  who  had  been 
the  heaven  of  the  mother  lying  dead. 

Happy  for  him  was  it  when  love,  in  the  anguish 
of  neglected  opportunities,  dreamed  of  a  second 
harvest, — happy,  indeed,  that  such  a  flower  of 
beauty  and  of  truth  awaited^  and  not  the  stubble 
and  the  wasted  grain,  and  the  barren  fields,  which 
never  would  bloom  as  of  old. 

Let  it  be  said  that  the  prayers  he  made  in 
those  afterdays  for  both  were  holy  ones,  and  that 
the  promises  he  offered  in  expiation  were  kept — 
with  a  hard,  unyielding  affection,  if  you  please,  and 
with  selfishness — but  still  with  a  love,  which,  in  a 
blind  way,  impelled  him  to  do  his  duty  by  his  child. 

It  was  true,  also,  that  Catlin's  poverty  had  not 
counted  against  him,  for,  as  Marsden  had  sworn 
that  death  alone  should  separate  father  and 
daughter,  he  used  fondly  to  say  that  a  poor  man 
was  surer  held  than  one  who  was  rich.  But, 
apart  from  the  fact  that  he  did  not  want  his 
daughter  to  marry,  Catlin's  weakness  excited 
a  personal  antagonism  which  he  could  not 
overcome;  and  he  feared,  in  trying  to  gain 
his  point,  that  Catlin,  who  knew  the  story  of 
his  second  marriage,  might  not  scruple  to  dis- 
illusion Isabel.  He  did  not  stop  to  consider  the 
folly  of  any  such  belief:  he  simply  accepted  it 
as  a  possibility,  and  let  it  rule  him. 


A  QUEER  LOT.  03 

"I  confess,  Bentley,"  he  resumed,  when  the 
strength  of  his  emotion  had  subsided, — "  I  was 
afraid  of  this  devil,  mainly  for  my  daughter's  sake. 
You  know  our  world,  our  metier^  our  opportuni- 
ties, our  ideals,  our  temptations.  In  the  past,  I 
was  as  other  men,  who  are  deficient  on  the  side 
of  sentiment,  and  I  acted  thoughtlessly — ^perhaps, 
worse — to  the  sweetest  and  most  forgiving  woman 
who  ever  lived.  But,"  he  explained,  as  if  trying 
to  justify  his  sins  by  impeaching  the  race,  and 
specially  including  Bentley,  "we  look  upon  these 
things  so  differently  from  women." 

It  was  evident  he  was  groping  for  words 
wherewith  to  soften  his  confession  ;  but  these  did 
not  come  easily  and  proved  that  it  was  only  the 
necessity  of  making  his  actions  plain  which  could 
have  moved  him  to  disclose  his  weaknesses,  even 
to  a  person  whom  he  respected  and  liked  as  much 
as  he  did  Bentley. 

"  In  short,  I  feel  now  I  might  have  done  dif- 
ferently; not  that  I  have  been  a  rogue  or  a 
scoundrel,  but,  in  my  life,  there  have  been 
events,  which,  if  revealed  to  my  daughter  as 
simple,  statistical  moral  facts,  without  the  color, 
the  light,  the  apology  of  the  circumstances  which 
dominated,  and  gave  them  a  raison  d'etre, — why, 
I  fear  she  would  hate  and  leave  me  for  the 
first  adventurer,  who  posed  as  an  elementally 


04  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

proper  person,  possessing  the  merits  I  never  could 
have  known. 

"  I  sent  Miss  Darlington  a  note,  which,  as  I 
hoped,  smilingly  put  the  question  by;  but  she 
never  answered  it.  This  alarmed  me,  and  I  seized 
upon  the  pretext  of  my  illness  to  write  another 
in  which  I  blustered  a  little,  and  rapped  up  a 
fictitious  policeman.  Her  only  reply  to  this  was 
a  telegram,  which  read — '  Fmd  Philip  Catlin  for 
me! 

"  Her  determination  seemed  so  fixed  that  I 
employed  an  Agent  of  the  Siirete,  who  brought 
the  best  recommendations  from  the  Central  Bu- 
reau. On  the  fifth  of  March,  I  came  into  posses- 
sion of  the  letter  which  is  marked  No.  3.  It  was 
addressed  to  my  daughter,  and  was  sent  by  a  mes- 
senger, whom,  fortunately,  the  detective  intercepted 
at  the  office  of  the  hotel.  The  address  on  the  en- 
velope was  so  cramped  and  unnatural,  that  the 
more  I  studied,  the  better  I  became  satisfied  it 
was  in  a  disguised  hand.  I  kept  it  two  days, 
and,  after  weighing  all  the  arguments,  felt  it 
was  my  duty  to  open  it.  Thank  God,  I  did ! 
for,  as  I  had  suspected,  it  was  written  by  that 
fiend." 

This  letter,  unlike  the  others,  was  put  aside  by 
Marsden,  though  it  was  needed  to  complete  the 
missing  links  of  the  story,  and  ran  as  follows : 


A  QUEER  LOT.  n^ 

"Toulon,  France. 
"March  5,  1879. 

"  I  have  come  from  the  death-bed  of  the  man  you  have  mur- 
dered ;  to-morrow  I  shall  see  him  buried  where  only  strangers 
sleep.  Philip  Catlm — the  truest,  bravest,  and  brightest  soul  in 
the  world — died  by  your  hands,  a  felon  in  the  Toulon  jail.  It  is 
true,  he  killed  himself,  but  this  was  in  remorse  for  his  desertion 
of  me,  and  because  the  degradation  to  which  you  sent  him 
could  be  endured  no  longer.  As  he  died,  I  shall  try  to  make 
you  die ;  not  to-day,  perhaps,  nor  to-morrow,  but  some  day, — 
and,  if  it  can  be — amid  horrors  more  dreadful  than  those  which 
surrounded  him. 

"As  you  tried  to  win  his  love  from  me,  I  shall  take  from  you 
— ^in  my  own  way  and  time — the  love  that  is  most  to  you.  I 
send  you  this  prophecy  from  the  dead  past  of  my  ruined  hfe.  I 
consecrate  my  oath  by  the  touch  of  the  flowers  I  shall  throw  in 
his  nameless  grave  to-morrow. 

"  With  every  prayer  I  make  for  him,  I  ask  an  evil  for  you,  and 
with  the  shadow  of  his  death  still  clinging  to  my  lips,  I  dedicate 
your  days  to  the  anguish  mine  have  known ;  I  pray  every  moment 
of  them  may  be  cursed  with  grief,  and  hunger,  and  pain.  I  pray 
that  the  death,  which  you  fear,  will  be  about  you,  ready  to  strike 
in  the  moment  when  it  will  be  most  awfiil,  and,  that  the  death 
you  beg  for,  will  wait  and  wait — before  it  comes — ^until  you 
know,  as  I  have  known,  the  maddening  terrors  of  hell. 

"  Marion  Darlington." 


"  That  night,"  Marsden  continued,  "  I  went  to 
Marseilles,  and,  by  the  tenth,  I  was  in  Algiers, 
living  in  a  quiet  villa,  near  the  gardens  of  the  Bab 
el  Oued.  But  I  could  find  no  rest.  Whether 
Catlin  was  dead  or  not,  this  woman  was  insane, 
and  I  knew  not  at  what  moment  she  might  wreak 


96 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


the  vengeance  she  had  invoked.  At  last,  in  an 
agony  of  terror,  I  determined  to  come  here,  to 
consult  you,  to  undergo  any  sacrifices  which  would 
placate  her.  Her  death  made  all  this  useless, 
though  there  are  revenges  which  are  as  sure  to 
the  dead  as  to  the  living,  and,  in  some  mad  way 
— ^yet  to  be  revealed — she  may  have  left  a  legacy 
of  hate  to  finish  the  misery  she  began  in  life." 

When  Marsden  brought  his  narrative  to  an 
end,  Bentley  broke  the  seal  of  the  manuscript 
found  in  Mrs.  Darlington's  room,  and  said, — 

"  Since  your  share,  sir,  in  the  mystery  of  this 
woman's  life  and  death  is  greater  than  mine,  I 
have  kept  her  last  message  until  you  came. 
Are  you  ready  to  hear  it  ?  " 

Marsden  made  a  gesture  of  assent,  and  Bentley 
read  slowly  as  follows : 

"to   colonel   CLIFFORD   BENTLEY. 

*' Paris,  April  sd,  i8yg. 

"  This  night  I  go  to  my  death, — for  all  I  love, 
even  my  revenge,  so  far  as  it  would  make  me 
live,  is  dead.  I  have  struggled  for  a  month  in 
vain.  Morning  and  evening,  day  and  night,  I 
have  heard  a  voice  whispering — '  Come,  now  is 
the   time — leave  behind  all  this — come : '  and  I 


A  QUEER  LOT.  gy 

can  no  longer  resist  its  pleading.  I  make  you 
the  heir  of  my  wrongs,  and  I  am  driven  to  kill 
myself,  because  of  the  woman  whose  life  is  mixed 
with  his,  with  yours,  with  mine, — even  to  the  end 
and  for  their  evil.  She  is  Fate.  Catlin  could  not 
escape  her,  nor  I — can  you  ?  She  is  beautiful, 
but  it  is  the  beauty  of  the  devil  which  is  given  to 
kill,  not  the  body  alone,  but  the  soul.  She  has 
killed  mine,  she  has  killed  the  man  who  loved 
you  so  dearly — she  will  kill  you. 

"  Philip  Catlin  was  my  affianced  husband — the 
only  human  being  in  all  this  world  who  ever  gave 
me  a  loving  word  or  touched  my  hand  in  tender- 
ness ;  for  since  my  earliest  years  I  have  been  an 
orphan,  without  a  memory  even  of  the  mother 
who  might  have  straightened  my  warped  life,  of 
the  father  who  is  said  to  have  left  us  both  to  die 
unheeded.  But  I  needed  nothing,  hungry  as  I 
was  for  human  sympathy  and  love,  after  Philip 
came  into  my  life.  It  was  a  brief  dream,  and  she 
awakened  me. 

"  He  followed  her  to  Europe,  as  one  demented, 
and  to  be  near  her,  struggled  and  starved.  She 
was  the  lure  light,  he  the  foolish  moth.  But  hers 
was  the  light  of  a  wicked  spell,  and  his  the  trial 
through  which  all  true  love  must  go,  for  he  loved 
me  best,  and  only  me.  When  this  woman  left 
Paris,  she  cheered  him  with  promises  of  her  re- 
7 


q8  a  desperate  chance. 

turn, — and  to  be  near  her  he  lived  in  the  most 
abject  poverty  and  underwent  sacrifices  which 
broke  him  down  in  mind  and  body. 

"  Then  you  met  her,  and  it  was  Philip's  bitter 
grief  to  learn  that  his  best  loved  and  oldest  friend 
was  the  rival  who  complicated  the  struggle.  Can 
you  imagine  the  strength  of  my  love  when  I  tell 
you  that  I,  who  had  risked  and  lost  all,  would 
have  welcomed  gladly  their  marriage  to  have 
saved  him.  For  he  would  have  tired  of  her,  and, 
if  not,  I  could,  at  least,  have  killed  her.  But  no ; 
with  a  refinement  of  cruelty  called  pity,  she  would 
neither  let  him  go  nor  stay,  and  in  a  moment 
of  madness,  he  determined  to  follow  her  to  the 
South. 

"  He  was  more  fit  for  the  Hospital  and  the  ten- 
der care  of  those  who  loved  him  than  for  such  a 
journey.  Before  he  reached  Lyons,  he  was  robbed 
while  asleep  in  the  crowded  car,  and  awoke  to 
find  himself  at  the  station  alone  and  penniless. 
For  two  days,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  through 
the  streets  of  that  prosperous  city,  he  walked,  seek- 
ing the  thief,  and  starving. 

"  He  had  ten  sous  left. 

"  Five  of  these  he  gave  to  a  beggar  who  be- 
seeched  alms  in  the  name  of  God's  mother,  and 
following  this  cripple  he  saw  the  money  spent, 
in  the  nearest  shop,  for  brandy.     He  struggled 


.      A  QUEER  LOT.  gg 

and  starved  another  day,  sleeping  in  the  rain 
and  mire,  and  always  hearing  a  voice  which 
opened  a  way  for  escape.  He  went  to  the  agents 
of  the  large  American  silk  houses,  and  told  his 
story, — in  one  case  to  a  countryman, — but  all 
spurned  him,  he  who  had  been  a  soldier,  and  was 
a  gentleman. 

"  He  spent  two  of  his  five  sous,  not  for  bread, 
as  that  hunger  was  gone,  but  for  brandy;  and  the 
fierceness  of  desire  growing  upon  him,  the  rest 
of  his  pennies  followed.  Then  he  became  de- 
mented— as  irresponsible  as  the  child,  as  the  mad- 
man whom  all  excuse.  He  heard  the  voice  still 
caUing — it  seemed  always  the  same:  'Come  to 
me,'  it  sang,  'and  elysium.'  How  do  I  know 
these  things  ?  He  wrote  them  to  me  in  the  letter 
which  I  burned.  You  Avill  find  its  ashes,  choking 
the  stove  in  my  room,  when  I  am  dead. 

"  After  this  came  madness. 

"  The  police  charge  him  with  having  violently 
seized  at  noon,  in  broad  sunlight,  and  on  the  most 
crowded  street  of  Lyons,  a  bank  messenger  who 
was  carrying  money  to  be  deposited.  Philip,  in  his 
delirium,  asked  the  man  to  deliver  one  of  the  bags 
peacefully  as  a  loan  which  would  enable  him  to 
reach  Nice — to  follow  her.  Instead  of  pitying 
him,  as  one  would  a  child  reaching  for  the  moon, 
the  brute  struck  him.    A  struggle  followed,  such 


100  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

a  short,  such  an  easy  one, — and  it  was  called  he- 
roic by  these  miserable  Frenchmen.  They  ar- 
rested, tried  and  convicted  Philip,  surely  and 
speedily,  for  he  made  no  defence,  and  these  things 
are  ordered  by  a  machinery  which  in  France  never 
fails  for  foreigners. 

"  When  in  the  cool,  quiet  jail,  under  the  pitying 
hands  of  the  Sisters,  he  came  back  to  life,  he  ac- 
cepted his  fate  without  a  protest.  His  sentence 
was  imprisonment  at  hard  labor  for  ten  years,  at 
home,  as  they  tried  to  call  it,  and  not  in  Cayenne. 
While  we  were  searching,  and  when  Marsden's 
stolen  money  could  have  found  and  saved  him, 
he  was  praying  for  death  amid  the  nameless, 
relentless  cruelties  of  a  common  jail.  He  failed 
day  by  day,  almost  hour  by  hour,  they  told  me, 
from  the  very  beginning,  though  they  were  as 
good — the  naval  surgeons — as  the  civil  rules 
allowed. 

"  Finally  he  died. 

"  Just  before  the  end,  his  reason  returned,  and 
he  thought  of  me,  and  wrote  what  I  am  entering 
here  for  you,  our  avenger.  He  told  me  all,  how 
he  had  been  spurned  like  a  rabid  dog  by  the 
father,  and  how  he  felt  that  he  must  make  one 
last  effort  or  die.  He  asked  my  pardon  for  the 
past,  my  pity  for  the  present,  my  prayers  for  the 
future,  for  his  misery  could  be  endured  no  longer, 


A  QUEER  LOT.  iqi 

and  he  had  the  means — a  common  enough  poi- 
son— of  killing  himself. 

"  It  was  his  last  good-bye  to  the  world,  and  of 
all  created  things  to  whom  did  he  send  it — to 
her  ?  No !  To  me  ?  Yes !  for  he  loved  me.  It 
was  my  first  clue,  and  though  I  did  not  dare  tele- 
graph the  authorities,  lest  a  punishment  might  be 
inflicted  upon  Philip,  I  determined  to  save  him. 

"  I  went  to  Toulon  at  once,  and  having  gained 
admission  to  the  prison,  reached  him,  my  Philip, 
reached  him  in  time — to  rescue,  to  ease  a  single 
pain  ?     No — to  see  him  die ! 

"  And  this  was  all,  all  after  the  years  of  patient 
love  and  waiting. 

"  At  first  I  determined  to  bide  my  chance  and 
kill  her  who  had  brought  these  evil  days  upon 
us,  but  that  desire  is  gone  now,  and  you,  not  I, 
must  be  the  agent  of  the  vengeful  Fate  in  whom 
I  believe.  I  leave  her  to  a  worse  death  than  I 
can  give,  to  your  contempt,  to  your  knowledge 
of  what  she  is. 

"  I  know  she  will  die  as  he  did,  and  if  spirits  can 
return,  I  shall  be  with  her.  And  you,  will  you 
love  a  murderer?  Will  you  deny  that  behind 
the  mask  of  the  angel  is  the  face  of  the  devil  ? 
Will  you  be  led  as  he  was,  differently  in  way,  but 
no  less  surely,  to  the  same  end  ? 

"  The  night  is  coming,  and  my  last  message  on 


I02  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

earth  is  for  you,  I  leave  it  in  this  room  which 
has  known  my  grief,  lest  my  strength  should  fail 
on  the  bridge,  where  I  shall  seal  the  truth  of 
what  I  try  to  tell  you,  with  my  life.  If  you  are 
not  there,  take  these  as  the  last  words  of  a  woman 
who  will  be  dead  when  you  read  them.  Do  not 
pity  me, — I  am  beyond  the  need  of  that, — but  be 
warned  by 

"Marion  Darlington." 

Bentley  read  steadily  to  the  end,  and  when  he 
looked  up,  saw  that  Marsden  was  watching  him 
intently. 

"  Do  you  believe  her  ?  " 

"  I  pity  her.  She  was  insane !  But  what  un- 
told evil  she  could  have  wrought.  Thank  God, 
I  never  met  her." 

"But,  do  you  believe  her?"  insisted  Marsden. 

"  I  believe  she  loved  Catlin  with  a  strength 
which  turned  her  brain  after  he  rejected  her. 
Hers  was  a  sad  life,  I  fancy,  with  it  all, — and  I 
doubt  if  she  ever  had  the  even  start  that  we, 
and  most  of  us,  were  given.  I  blame  and  pity 
her." 

"  What  will  you  do  with  these  papers  ?  "  asked 
Marsden,  who  avoided  the  subject  when  it  reached 
a  stage  of  defence.  "  Surely  no  one  else  should 
read  them." 


A  QUEER  LOT.  IO3 

"Only  one  other — Catlin's  sister.  Her  right 
is  the  greatest  of  all,"  exclaimed  Bentley. 

Marsden  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  went 
to  the  window,  nervously  lighted  a  cigar,  smoked 
fiercely  for  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  quiet  his 
emotion  or  to  arrive  at  a  decision ;  and,  not  look- 
ing at  Bentley,  finally  said, — 

"Tell  me,  is  this  dead  woman  as  insane,  in 
speaking  of  the  revenge  she  leaves  to  you,  as  she 
is  in  all  other  things  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  by  that — do  you  intend  to  ask 
— if  I  love  your  daughter?"  answered  Bentley,  qui- 
etly. "  Yes,  thank  God,  that  knowledge  of  higher 
things  is  mine,  however  vain  my  love  may  be.  Let 
me  tell  you.  Not  to  you  is  it  so  great  a  surprise  to 
learn  this,  as  it  would  be  to  your  daughter.  You 
will  say, — pardon  me,"  he  added,  with  a  courteous 
gesture,  as  Marsden  was  about  to  interrupt, — 
"you  will  say,  and  justly,  that  I  have  seen  so 
little  of  her.  But  it  is  not  always  that,  and  I  only 
know  my  feelings  are  as  I  have  told  you." 

It  was  a  profanation  for  Bentley  to  reveal  this 
secret  of  his  life,  ev^en  to  Marsden ;  but  he  could 
not  escape  the  duty  it  had  become.  "  She,  of 
course,"  he  continued,  "  will  never  suspect  nor 
know  it  from  me ;  for  I  realize  too  well  the  use- 
lessness  and  unfitness  of  my  life  and  character,  to 
harm  her  even  by  the  thought  that  I  could  aspire 


104  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE, 

to  the  heights  whereon  she  lives.  I  know  my 
own  unworthiness  in  every  way.  But  this  I  can 
do.  Some  day  you  may  think  she  needs  my  help. 
Circumstances  may  be  such  about  you  that  I  may 
be  of  use.     Send  for  me,  and  I  will  come." 

Marsden  offered  a  trembling  hand  and  said, — 
"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this — ^but  I  thank  you  for 
the  confidence  you  show  in  me — and  it  shall  be 
as  you  wish.  If  she  ever  needs  you,  I  shall  send 
for  you,  Bentley, — yes,  I  promise,  before  any  one 
else  in  this  world." 

When  the  white-faced  and  unnerved  worldling 
departed,  Bentley  sat  in  the  dusk  and  deepening 
twilight,  thinking  of  many  things,  but  always  as 
they  centred  about  Isabel  Marsden.  Into  the 
falling  night  he  lingered  in  thoughtful  dreaming, 
and  did  not  mark  the  darkness  nor  the  gloom,  for 
the  happiness  of  loving  was  upon  him,  and  his 
heart,  which  had  spoken  at  last,  stole  from  his 
love  a  light  that  illumed  the  night. 

Hitherto  his  days  had  lacked  scope  and  pur- 
pose, and  though  he  had  liked  many  women  with 
a  sincerity  and  faith  none  ever  gauged,  still  this 
affection  had  never  been  fanned  into  a  steadier  or  a 
stronger  flame.  It  was  always  his  misfortune  not 
to  accept  but  to  analyze,  and  at  last  he  taught 
himself,  despairingly,  to  believe  that  the  love  of 
woman  was  not  for  him. 


A  QUEER  LOT.  105 

Yet  love  awaited  him,  as  for  all  at  every  age 
and  under  every  trial,  though  most  she  blesses 
those  who  seek  her  in  the  perfect  flower  and  hey- 
day of  unthinking  youth.  And  who  will  blame 
if  she  gives  most  bountifully  to  the  faith  which 
never  questions  nor  falters  when  for  age  as  well 
as  youth  she  waits  ?  For  love  is  ever  glad  of  the 
suing  and  never  wearied,  even  if  hailed  in  despair 
from  the  fogs  and  mists  of  the  years,  where  the 
pilotless  ship,  beaten  by  gale  and  rusty  with  sea, 
gropes  in  the  twilight  for  the  port  it  might  have 
found  when  winds  blew  fair  and  sunrise  gladdened 
the  adventurous  voyage  of  life. 

Bentley  felt  this  truth  now,  and  saw  how  his 
wasted  years  had  lived  under  the  sky  and 
known  no  stars, — had  lo'itered  by  the  shore  and 
heard  no  message  from  the  sea.  But  the  blind- 
ness was  gone,  and  his  world  to-night  was  a 
symphony  of  faith  and  trust.  He  felt  the  fires 
of  summer  in  his  blood,  and  as  the  empurpling 
shadows  enfolded  him,  he  cried,  exultingly, — 

"  I  will  love  her  forever  and  forever, — in  this 
world  and  in  the  worlds  to  be." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


GIBRALTAR. 


WHEN  Marsden  left  Paris  in  May,  he  was 
so  ill  that  the  doctors  advised  him  to  defer 
his  departure  for  America  until  the  autumn.  He 
protested  vehemently,  but,  as  his  own  physicians 
said  that  he  was  taking  a  risk  which  nothing  would 
justify,  he  grumblingly  consented  to  obey. 

He  went  to  England,  and,  early  in  July,  Bent- 
ley,  who  had  postponed  his  trip  to  India,  joined 
them.  It  gave  Marsden  a  great  deal  of  satisfac- 
tion to  find  that  the  Colonel  had  not — as  he 
phrased  it — "  deserted  his  colors,"  for  it  was  a 
part  of  the  contradictions  in  the  cynical  old 
man's  nature  to  have  a  larger  faith  and  a  deeper 
trust  when  he  learned  how  earnestly  Bentley 
cared  for  Isabel.  And,  though  his  belief  was 
perfect  only  in  himself,  still  he  gave  to  Bentley 
as  large  a  measure  of  confidence  as  his  warped 
soul  could  offer,  and,  during  these  days  of  de- 
pressed idleness,  as  his  opinions  slowly  slipped 
from  the  shores  of  old  ideals,  and  left  bare  the 
io6 


GIBRAL  TAR. 


107 


shallows  of  ancient  fancies,  he  confessed,  peni- 
tently, the  wrong  he  did  in  separating  two  lives 
so  surely  meant  for  each  other.  Finally,  there 
came  a  time  when  he  hoped  that — all  being  over 
with  him — Isabel  might  learn  to  love  this  man  of 
truth  and  honest  purpose. 

In  July,  Marsden  and  Isabel  went  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  and,  though  his  health  improved  with  the 
change  of  scene,  and  the  new  interests  which  tem- 
porarily buoyed  him,  it  became  certain  that  his 
trouble  was  too  seriously  organic  not  to  make  the 
future  one  which  would  demand — as  the  price  of 
living — unceasing  care,  and  the  absence  of  all 
shocks.  It  was  not  that  his  ailments  were  alto- 
gether physical,  for  the  wounds  seemed  to  be 
deeper  than  skill  could  diagnose,  and,  although 
he  never  confessed  it,  he  was  struggling  with 
mental  troubles,  haunted  by  ghosts  of  his  past, 
which  would  not,  in  his  impaired  bodily  con- 
dition, yield  to  any  treatment. 

This  illness  and  worry  made  him  a  fretful  and 
difficult  patient  to  manage.  He  had  been  so  suc- 
cessful, hitherto,  in  his  dealings  with  men  and 
affairs,  his  brute  persistency  had  so  easily  over- 
mastered in  the  struggles  wherein  he  engaged, 
that  he  was  unwilling  to  acknowledge  the  weak 
spots  in  his  armor.  His  peculiarities  became  in- 
tensified, and  in  opposing  to  his  misfortunes  what 


I08  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

he  believed  to  be,  and  called,  the  courage  of  a  strong 
will,  he  arrayed  against  himself,  by  an  arrogant 
irritation  which  was  a  form  of  dementia,  many  of 
his  acquaintances  and  friends. 

He  soon  grew  tired  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and 
one  day,  while  sore  from  a  fancied  slight,  said 
to  Commodore  Percival,  who  had  come  to  Europe 
for  a  holiday  in  the  Black  Forest,  and  never  could 
tear  himself  from  the  sea  shore, — 

"  Confound  these  doctors !  They  are  all  char- 
latans, and  are  simply  seeking  the  nimble  guinea 
of  the  Yankee  victim.  I  am  sure  they  don't 
know  my  case." 

"  Why  don't  you  change  them  ?  "  growled 
Percival.  "  There  is  no  law  which  requires  an 
amiable  patient  to  stick  out  his  tongue  and  pre- 
sent his  pulse  to  any  particular  sawbones  who 
bids  him  stand  and  deliver." 

"  That's  all  well  enough  for  you,"  replied  Mars- 
den,  "with  your  savage  good  health,  but  I  must 
go  to  them.  That's  a  part  of  my  trouble.  Now, 
look  here,  Percival,  what  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve all  this  ?     Why  am  I  cursed  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  You  would  not  be  happy  in  Paradise,  Mars- 
den,"  returned  the  Commodore,  "  nor  if  you  had 
cabin  duff  every  day  for  a  month.  You  have 
been  too  long  on  shore,  and  what  you  need  is  a 
long  sea  voyage,  with  fresh  air,  nothing  to  worry 


GIBRALTAR.  lOo 

you,  plenty  of  exercise,  and  fo'k's'le  grub."  Per- 
cival  would  have  prescribed  the  same  treatment 
for  a  broken  arm.  "  Why  don't  you  get  out  of 
this,"  he  continued,  hoping  that  this  last  sugges- 
tion, if  not  the  remedy,  would  be  accepted,  as 
for  ten  days  Marsden  had  been  boring  him 
dreadfully. 

"  Get  out  of  this,"  repeated  Marsden :  "  why 
should  I.  The  place  " — he  had  loathed  it  five 
minutes  since — "  gives  me,  in  some  degree,  what 
I  want.  Not  that  my  needs  are  great,  for  my 
philosophy  of  living  is  a  simple  one :  sunlight, 
a  good  dinner,  sound  wine,  a  comfortable  bed, 
and  the  right  to  regulate  my  own  affairs." 

This  conversation  took  place  in  the  club-house, 
where  both  had  been  put  up  by  the  expansive 
hospitality  of  a  member,  who  was,  for  a  wonder, 
trying  to  return  some  of  the  courtesies  he  had 
received  in  America. 

Though  it  was  only  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  Percifal  had  already  made  it  seven 
bells,  and  reporting  the  sun  over  the  foreyard, 
was  regaling  himself  with  a  brandy  and  soda, — 
"just  to  sweeten  his  bilges,"  he  roared  across 
the  room  to  a  retired  British  Rear-Admiral,  who 
looked  on  envyingly  at  the  feast  which  his  doctors 
denied. 

For  a  week  the  Commodore  had  been  sailing 


no 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


with  his  lee  guns  under  water,  waiting  for  a  good 
chance  to  "bring  up  with  a  round  turn  that  ag- 
gravating, money-grubbing,  sour-faced  grumbler, 
Marsden."  In  the  audacity  of  the  alcohol,  which 
made  him  red  and  uncomfortable,  this  chance 
was  discovered  now,  and,  without  any  prelimi- 
naries, he  exclaimed,  brusquely, — 

"  See  here,  Marsden,  I  have  known  you  since 
'48  or  '49,  when  I  was  on  the  Pacific  slope, — 
thirty  years  and  better, — and  you  have  always 
been  the  same.  I  suppose  you  would  get  angry 
if  I  hinted  that  you  were  a  society  of  organized 
selfishness,  so  I  won't;  but  you  are,  all  the 
same." 

"  Commodore  Percival,"  replied  Marsden,  with 
a  face  puffed  out  like  a  cream  cake,  "  even  our 
long  acquaintance  and  the  well-known,  but  inde- 
fensible bluntness,  not  to  say  coarseness,  of  your 
profession,  will  hardly — " 

"Will  hardly  what?"  interrupted  Percival. 
"Will  hardly  justify  me — of  course  they  won't, 
but  I  do  not  need  the  justification  and  you  do. 
I  want  to  give  an  old  sailor's  advice,  and  I  mean 
it  kindly.  Do  you  know  everybody  is  growling 
at  you,  and  as  we  would  like  to  stick  by  our 
countryman  against  these  constitutional  grum- 
blers over  here,  we  are  disheartened  because  you 
won't  give  us  a  peg  upon  which  to  hang  an  ex- 


GIBRALTAR.  HI 

cuse.  Why  don't  you  try  the  other  tack  ?  Take 
heart  of  grace ;  bear  up,  man  ;  don't  you  see  you 
are  killing  that  sweet  lass  who  gets  double  rations 
of  the  sort  of  talk  you  serve  out  so  liberally  to 
everybody  else.  Hear  an  old  friend's  advice;" 
Percival  softened  when  he  found  what  a  poor  foe 
Marsden  made  after  the  first  broadside  had  been 
poured  in — "run  up  to  London;  put  these  Lime- 
juice  doctors  in  quarantine  and  consult  Jack  Dal- 
ton.  He  is  Fleet  Surgeon  now,  and  a  capital  fellow, 
with  a  heart  as  big  as  a  Frigate's  main  topsail 
and  a  head  loaded  chock  to  the  muzzle  with 
sense  and  science.  He  knows  more  of  human 
nature  and  medicine  combined  than  any  other 
medico  who  ever  rammed  a  bolus  down  my 
throat, — and  that  is  because  he's  a  sailor,  every 
inch  of  him,  as  well  as  a  doctor.  Here's  my  card, 
Marsden,  and  if  he  don't  honor  it,  by  telling  you 
the  truth,  why  Jack  Dalton  is  changed  and  I'll 
eat  my  last  commission.  But  you  will  have  to 
hurry ;  he  has  only  ten  days'  leave,  and  if  you 
miss  him  I  will  cheerfully  act  as  your  executor." 

Marsden's  dignity  was  hurt.  He  strode  home- 
ward with  flaming  cheeks,  and  for  days  told 
everybody  that  of  all  coarse  brutes  the  sea  speci- 
men was  the  worst.  But  he  took  Percival's  ad- 
vice and  went  to  London. 

Dalton,  who  was  a  prince   among  men,  the 


112  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

cheeriest  of  companions,  the  tenderest-hearted  of 
doctors,  the  most  loyal  of  friends,  received  Mars- 
den  with  such  a  welcome  that  some  of  his  own 
sunshine  crept  into  and  brightened  the  dark  spots 
of  the  invalid's  mind. 

He  listened  patiently  and  agreed,  as  these 
physicians  always  do  in  their  pathological  free 
masonry,  with  the  diagnosis  of  the  other  doc- 
tors. But  his  remedy  was  different,  for  he  ad- 
vised his  patient  to  go  home  immediately  in  a 
sailing  vessel  and  by  way  of  the  Southern  passage. 
He  gave  specific  directions  about  diet  and  hygiene, 
told  just  what  wind  and  weather,  and  what  health- 
giving  properties  of  rest  and  tone,  might  be  ex- 
pected at  this  season,  and  altogether  infused  so 
much  spirit,  that  the  grumbling  invalid  began  the 
next  day  to  make  inquiries  for  a  suitable  vessel. 

Upon  his  return  to  Cowes,  Marsden  was  so 
elated  with  the  possibilities  of  a  cure,  and  so  gar- 
rulous and  prophetic  about  the  future,  that  Isabel 
absorbed  a  renewal  of  the  courage  which  had 
almost  deserted  her. 

She  had  lost  something  of  the  bloom  stolen  in 
the  early  spring,  though  this  only  accentuated  the 
purity  and  spirituality  of  her  beauty.  She  was 
depressed  by  her  father's  illness,  and  tried  in 
many  ways,  not  by  his  positive  treatment  of  her, 
but  by  the  negative  sorrows  which  came  from 


GIBRALTAR. 


"3 


his  strained  relations  with  the  people  about  him. 
She  had  never  been  consulted  about  this  voyage, 
and  had  opposed  no  objection  to  what  she  be- 
lieved to  be  the  idea  of  a  mind  disturbed  by  an 
illness  which  made  abnormal  things  look  natural; 
but  when  her  father  returned  with  the  sunshine 
of  Dalton's  optimism  running  riotously  in  his 
blood,  she  accepted  its  possibility  as  a  blessing. 

So  she  was  much  pleased,  one  day  while  look- 
ing from  the  pier  at  the  yawls  and  cutters  fretting 
at  their  anchorages,  to  see  her  father  meet  his  old 
friend  Bradbury,  of  the  firm  of  Bradbury  &  Wins- 
low,  ship  owners,  formerly  of  Salem,  and  now  of 
South  Street,  New  York.  The  change  in  Mars- 
den  shocked  Bradbury,  and  when  the  question  of 
his  ailments  arose,  as  it  always  did  with  great 
promptness,  Isabel  was  delighted  to  hear  the 
merchant  say, — 

"  Dr.  Dalton  is  right,  and  Marsden,  I  have  a 
remedy.  Do  you  remember  the  Halcyon  ?  No? 
Well,  you  should,  as  you  own  a  piece  in  her. 
Just  now  she  is  loading  at  Genoa,  and  ought  to 
be  in  the  Straits,  homeward  bound,  about  the 
middle  of  August.  What  do  you  say?  Run 
down  to  Gibraltar;  I  will  telegraph  Captain 
Waite  to  put  in  there,  and  if  you  are  ready  for 
the  voyage,  go  on  board ;  if  not,  the  trip  will  have 
done  you  no  harm,  and  the  detention  of  the  ship 
8 


114 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


can,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  make  no  possible 
difference." 

Marsden  growled  a  surly  thanks,  which  implied 
an  off-hand  refusal,  but  when  subsequently  he 
learned  that  the  Halcyon  was  a  fine  ship,  half- 
clipper  built,  with  a  large  cabin,  and  a  master 
whose  reputation  was  excellent,  he  accepted  the 
offer.  They  went  to  London,  and  to  settle  defi- 
nitely his  intentions,  passage  was  engaged  on 
board  the  P.  &  O.  steamer  Trafalgar,  which  was 
to  sail  on  the  8th  of  August. 

Bentley  was  in  London,  and  on  the  day  ap- 
pointed, accompanied  them  to  Southampton. 
He  presented  to  the  superintendent  of  the  fleet, 
and  to  the  captain  of  the  Trafalgar,  the  letters 
given  him  by  old  Admiral  Leighton,  the  chair- 
man of  the  company,  and  then  saw  his  com- 
panions safely  on  board  ship. 

For  days  this  parting  had  hung  over  him  as  an 
impending  calamity,  and  he  waited  in  a  nervous 
anxiety,  and  with  a  distrust  of  himself,  to  speak 
his  farewells.  But,  by  the  time  the  ringing  bells 
and  the  rasping  voices  of  the  stewards  told  him 
the  parting  hour  had  come,  he  had  brought  him- 
self to  such  a  point  of  self-control,  that  his  good- 
byes to  Isabel  were  as  calm  as  if  he  was  to  meet 
her  on  the  morrow. 

As  Marsden  walked  forward  with  him,  he  was 


GIBRAL  TAR. 


115 


very  quiet,  but  when  the  gangway  was  reached,  he 
said  :  "  Well,  I  suppose  this  is  the  end  of  it ;  so  a 
pleasant  voyage  and  good-bye."  After  waiting  a 
moment,  he  added,  looking  aft,  where  she  sat 
watching  them :  "  God  bless  her,  and  remember, 
if  I  am  ever  needed,  send  for  me." 

The  lines  were  slackened,  the  rushing  steam 
was  checked,  and,  as  Bentley  went  to  the  pier- 
end,  and  with  bared  head,  stood  among  the 
group  waving  farewells,  the  ship  steamed  slowly 
out  of  the  dock,  amid  the  cheers  which  rang  with 
sobs  for  echoes.  Fainter  and  fainter,  the  Trafalgar 
grew,  first  a  blurred  mass  in  motion,  next  a  curl  of 
wreathing  smoke,  now  a  mist  to  leeward,  and  then 
— nothing.  Nothing  but  the  memory  of  pale  faces 
and  of  glad  ones,  of  ringing  cheers  and  waving 
hands,  of  tear-choked  voices,  and  of  blue  waters, 
changing  to  the  gold  and  ruby  of  summer  twi- 
light. But  Bentley  saw  none  of  these,  and  for 
him  there  was  the  remembrance  only  of  the  wist- 
ful face  of  his  dear  love,  looking  upon  the  land 
with  longings  never  felt  before.  Would  she  have 
been  happier  had  she  known  of  the  heart  wearied 
with  hopeless  love  going  back  that  night  to  Lon- 
don's care  and  trouble  ? 

The  voyage  of  the  Trafalgar  was  uneventful ; 
there  was  a  breezy  night  off  the  Needles,  a  disa- 


Il6  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

greeable  sea  and  half-gale  to  Finisterre,  and  such 
smooth  water  and  favoring  winds  in  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  and  along  the  Portuguese  coast,  that  Gib- 
raltar was  reached  early  on  the  fifth  day. 

Marsden  was  an  excellent  shipmate,  and  came 
out  brilliantly  in  a  new  light,  as  the  hearty,  but 
reckless  sailor.  The  impression  made  was  so 
good,  that  he  began  to  believe  he  was,  after  all, 
a  capital,  hitherto-misunderstood  fellow,  with  a 
positive  genius  for  concocting  all  sorts  of  impos- 
sibly-named American  drinks,  and  a  sublime  pa- 
tience for  cutting  in  with  the  worst  whist  players 
in  the  ship.  He  sat  at  the  captain's  table,  capped 
oracle  with  oracle,  received  a  flattering  atten- 
tion from  the  younger  men,  though  this  last 
was  mainly  because  of  Isabel,  and  was  the  um- 
pire of  every  game,  from  shuffle-board  to 
Twenty  Questions,  which  the  uneasy  spirits  of 
the  ship  evolved.  By  the  time  the  Trafalgar 
reached  "  Gib,"  as  the  subalterns  called  it,  he 
had  made  a  half-dozen  agreeable  acquaintances, 
among  them  an  American  named  Lorrimore, 
who,  after  idling  away  his  vacation  in  England, 
was  now  bound  for  the  Rock,  in  the  hope  of 
catching  one  of  the  Italian  steamers  which  touch 
at  Gibraltar,  en  route  to  New  York. 

Lorrimore  had  presented  himself  on  the  sec- 
ond day  out,  by  recalling  a  previous  meeting  in 


GIBRAL  TAR. 


117 


England,  and,  though  Marsden  did  not  remem- 
ber this,  he  accepted  the  fact  much  as  a  prince 
might  receive  a  foreigner,  who  had  done  him  a 
knightly  deed  upon  a  battlefield,  where  he  was 
sorely  pressed  by  enemies.  For  it  was  a  part  of 
Marsden's  nature,  under  the  circumstances  which 
operated  in  his  present  environment,  to  assume 
as  true  what  people  conspired  to  humor  as  an 
idle  whim. 

The  sea  air,  new  faces  and  different  life  con- 
vinced him  that  the  same  conditions  would,  in  a 
longer  association,  effect  a  cure;  and  when  he 
learned  that  the  Halcyon  had  not  arrived,  his 
complaints  of  Bradbury's  neglect  and  unkindness 
were  bitter  indeed.  A  telegram  received  the 
next  day  did  not  change  this  attitude  of  despair, 
for  the  vessel  had  not  sailed  until  the  eleventh  of 
August,  and,  with  the  weather  to  be  expected  at 
that  season,  might  not  reach  the  Rock  for  a 
fortnight. 

"Two  weeks  on  this  hill,"  he  roared, — "why, 
it's  a  rat-hole,  a  prison,  and  I  wish  I  had  never 
come.  Isabel,  dear,  why  did  you  let  me  be  per- 
suaded into  this  wild-goose  chase,  when  I  was  so 
comfortable  at  Cowes." 

He  worried  and  fretted  over  this  delay  so  much 
that  the  next  day  he  was  prostrated  by  a  high 
fever  and  an   alarming  weakness  in   the  heart 


Il8  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE, 

action.  Lorrimore  was  such  a  devoted  nurse 
that  Marsden  implored  him  not  to  visit  Tangiers  ; 
it  was  a  horrible  place,  he  growled,  all  fleas  and 
crippled  misery.  Lorrimore  agreed,  willingl}% 
to  stay,  but  insisted  that  a  physician  should  be 
called  in. 

Though  the  employment  of  simple  remedies 
brought  Marsden  about  rapidly,  the  illness  had 
enabled  him  to  solve  one  difficulty  with  which  he 
had  been  struggling,  for  his  first  act  was  to  send 
Bentley  a  telegram,  asking  if  he  could  make 
arrangements  to  join  them  at  the  Rock,  and 
cross  in  the  Halcyon. 

Within  five  hours  a  cordial  assent  to  the  prop- 
osition was  received,  together  with  the  announce- 
ment that  Bentley  would  sail  on  the  seventeenth, 

Marsden  was  a  new  man  after  this  was  settled, 
and,  though  he  communicated  the  fact  to  no  one, 
its  effect  was  evident.  He  entered  with  a  fever- 
ish spirit  into  the  amusements  of  the  place ;  he 
went  at  times  to  the  Barracks,  had  the  officers  he 
knew  best  dine  with  him,  drove  about  the  Rock, 
and  as  far  as  San  Roque,  but  no  further.  "  No," 
he  said,  when  a  party  was  being  made  for  a  trip 
inland.  "  No !  I  know  my  Spain  like  a  book, 
and  it  is  tiresome  reading  after  the  first  page. 
You  see  it  all  in  a  day.  Hidalgos,  onions,  pride, 
guitars,  oranges,  bodegas,  the  merry,  merry  mule- 


GIBRALTAR. 


119 


teer,  castinets,  flashing  dark  eyes,  contrabandistas, 
mandolins,  quick  knives,  Boabdil,  gypsies,  bull- 
fights, Bravo  Torro,  fans,  Moors,  olive  oil,  bad 
cigars,  and  this  Rock,  which,  by  St.  Jago,  they 
have  loaned  to  England  till  the  times  are  ripe,  and 
the  larks  fall.  No,  I  loathe  it,  and  so  does  Isabel. 
But  you  go,  Lorrimore,  or,  what  is  better,  try 
Tangiers.  It  is  more  oriental  than  Constanti- 
nople, and  the  best  thing,  by  long  odds,  as  a  study 
of  the  East,  this  side  of  Damascus." 

"  But  I  have  missed  the  steamer,"  replied  Lor- 
rimore, amused  at  the  different  estimate  Marsden 
now  put  upon  Tangiers. 

"  You  wouldn't  go  in  the  steamer  ?  Oh,  that 
would  be  a  great  mistake.  You  would  lose  the 
preparatory  appetizer.  Get  all  the  local  coloring 
you  can,"  answered  Marsden. 

"  But  that  means  discomfort." 

"  Ah,  you  have  no  poetry  in  your  soul,"  ex- 
claimed this  Sybarite,  who  would  not  have  suf- 
fered ten  minutes'  hardships  if  he  had  to  miss  the 
finest  sight  in  the  world.  "  Go  across  the  Bay  to 
Algeijiras,  and  if  old  Perez  is  alive,  he  will  give 
you  a  place  in  the  boat  which  supplies  the  Ceuta 
Garrison  with  cattle,  and  you  can  work  your  pass- 
age somehow.  Put  your  feet  in  the  bilge  puddle 
at  the  bottom,  rest  your  head  on  a  cow,  get  as  ill 
as  you  like,  eat  garlic  with  the  greasy  conscripts, 


I20  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

drink  the  red  ink  they  call  Colares,  salaam  to 
the  Grand  Bashaw,  buy  a  fez  cap  and  a  pipe,  bake 
in  the  sunlight, — but  return  before  the  twenty- 
fifth.  Go,  my  boy,  be  poetical,  and  go  with  my 
blessing." 

Lorrimore  crossed  to  Tangiers,  and  Marsden 
and  Isabel  settled  down  to  a  quiet  enjoyment  of 
Gibraltar.  He  spent  the  best  part  of  each  day 
reading  the  newest  novels,  and  lived  with  the 
characters,  no  matter  how  unreal  or  impossible 
they  might  be ;  he  was  moved  to  tears  by  the 
sentimental  chapters,  and  filled  with  joy  when 
lowly  virtue  triumphed  over  wealthy  vice ;  he 
read  choice  bits  aloud,  and  generally  conducted 
himself  as  a  literary  person  of  nice  taste. 

Isabel  went  in  the  mornings  for  long  walks, 
and  on  band  days,  when  Marsden  could  be  with 
her,  lingered  in  the  garden  of  the  Alameda,  after 
the  music  had  ceased.  To  her  there  was  a 
charm  in  the  quaint  life  of  the  Rock,  and  an 
unending  pleasure  in  the  contrasted  people  of  the 
two  continents.  The  grave  and  stately  Moors 
returning  after  sunrise  from  some  eastern  point 
which  looked  toward  Mecca;  the  British  soldiers, 
trim  and  automatic ;  the  Jews  in  gaberdines  ;  the 
pale-brown  Spanish  girls  with  shining  black  hair ; 
the  yellow -gartered  muleteers,  driving  with  shrill 
cries  the  water-laden  donkeys;  the  native  women 


GIBRALTAR.  1 21 

in  red  cloaks  and  hoods,  edged  with  black  velvet; 
and,  once,  a  woman  from  Tarifa,  grim  with  the 
yashmuk,  and  gaudy  with  bracelets  of  sesquins 
and  bangles  of  the«  little  sharp-pointed  shells 
found  on  the  Rif  Coast. 

Upon  breezy  mornings  she  went  to  the  Water- 
Port,  and  watched  the  squall  clouds  sweeping 
seaward,  the  white  sails  of  distant  ships,  the  red 
and  yellow  boats  bruising  and  battering  each 
other  at  the  landing,  and  the  swaying  of  the  lat- 
eens,  as  the  xebecs  brought  to  the  mole  the  mot- 
ley passengers  from  the  Spanish  mainland' or  from 
the  dull  and  dead  towns  of  the  African  coast  be- 
yond. 

Bentley  landed,  one  blustering  morning,  at 
this  same  point,  tired  with  the  constant  shaking 
of  the  steamer,  and  wet  with  the  spray  which 
dashed  over  the  bow  of  the  clumsy  boat  he 
had  hired  to  take  him  ashore.  He  jumped 
briskly  to  the  slippery  mole,  had  his  luggage 
passed  out,  tossed  the  boatman  a  coin,  and, 
looking  about  him,  thought,  in  the  joy  of 
being  near  Isabel,  that  this  was  the  Gate  of 
Paradise. 

But  when  the  hotel  was  reached,  a  nervous 
anxiety  that  was  beyond  control  dissipated  the 
courage  which  had  sustained  him  so  long ;  and 
though  he  had  not  breakfasted  and  was  as  hungry 


122  '  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

as  a  shark,  he  did  not  venture  down  stairs  until 
after  ten  o'clock. 

Marsden  was  on  the  alert,  and  greeted  him 
with  a  quick,  glad  cry  of  recognition,  which  was 
followed  by  a  moment  of  restraint,  that  might 
have  been  embarrassing  but  for  Bentley's  frank 
and  cordial  manner.  This  reassured  Marsden, 
who  led  the  Colonel  to  a  seat,  and  said, — 

"  It's  a  delight  to  have  you  here,  though  I  am 
afraid  my  selfishness  has  put  you  to  serious  in- 
convenience. But  the  truth  is,  Bentley,  I  am 
convinced  Doctor  Dalton  must  be  right,  and 
this  voyage  is  to  make  a  new  man  of  me.  I 
was  suffering  from  a  bad  turn  when  the  telegram 
was  sent,  and  had  you  not  promised  to  come,  I 
should  be  in  bed  this  blessed  minute." 

"  Then  I  am  doubly  glad  to  be  here,"  responded 
Bentley,  sincerely. 

"  Ah,  my  boy !  that  is  just  like  you.  I  am  all 
right  now ;  but  for  an  hour  or  two  I  feared  the  worst 
might  happen.  Fortunately,  nothing  came  of  it 
except  to  make  plain  what  might  occur  at  anytime. 
Of  course,  I  cannot  go  on  board  the  Halcyon 
without  my  daughter,  and  should  anything  hap- 
pen there, — I  mean  a  serious  illness, — it  would 
be  hard  lines  for  Isabel  to  have  no  one  in  whom 
she  could  put  confidence.  I  remembered  your 
promise,  and  to  cut  short  the  whole   story,  I 


GIBRALTAR. 


123 


wanted  you  to  be  near.  I  may  have  been  a 
selfish  brute,  but,  in  this,  at  least,  I  am  thinking 
only  of  her." 

"  You  did  right,  and  I  am  honored  by  the  trust 
you  place  in  me." 

"  Thank  you.  But,  while  we  are  on  this  sub- 
ject, let  me  be  frank  with  you  now,  and  confess, 
that  of  all  the  miseries  possible  in  this  world, 
none  would  be  so  serious  as  a  separation  from 
my  daughter,  at  any  time,  or  under  any  circum- 
stances. Indeed,  Bentley,  if  I  dared  to  believe 
that,  when  my  last  hour  came,  she  was  not  to  be 
with  me,  I  would  have  no  more  peace  nor  rest  in 
hfe." 

Bentley  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  heard  a 
light  step  upon  the  stair,  and  the  rustling  of  a 
woman's  dress.  Turning  expectantly,  he  saw 
Isabel,  quietly  and  gracefully  coming  toward 
them.  She  was  dressed  in  lawn,  and  at  her 
throat  a  half-blown  rose  trembled  happily  be- 
neath a  face  which,  like  Unas,  made  sunshine  in 
dark  places. 

Ah !  the  love,  the  love,  he  gave  her,  and  the 
tender  eyes  which  gazed  ! 

Slowly  she  came  downward,  not  seeing  him 
until  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  stair,  and  then,  as 
he  stood  with  outstretched  hand,  she  mur- 
mured, confusedly, — 


124 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"  Colonel  Bentley — and  here  ?  " 

As  she  bowed  her  head  to  hide  the  glad  sur- 
prise which  glorified  her  face,  the  flower  shrined 
at  her  neck  fell  to  his  feet  He  lifted  it  quickly, 
and  answered, — 

"  Happily,  yes." 

The  faded  .petals  of  that  Southern  rose  are 
cherished  to  this  day,  for  in  the  time  to  be  he 
learned  all  that  this  meeting  had  brought  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HALCYON,  AHOY ! 

THE  blustering  day  had  changed  to  one  of 
sunshine  and  brisk  breeze,  the  rack  and 
squall  had  blown  to  leeward,  and  in  the  bright 
coolness  of  the  morning,  Bentley  accompanied 
Isabel  on  her  walk,  and  renewed  the  recollections 
of  the  town  he  had  known  so  well  years  ago. 
They  listened  to  the  band  in  the  Alameda,  saun- 
tered idly  through  the  gardens,  prim  with  grav- 
eled paths,  and  tortuous  with  a  labyrinth  of  flam- 
ing flowers,  and  then  strolled  homeward  by  way 
of  the  Ragged  Staff,  where,  all  day  long,  noisy 
Scorpions  harried  the  patient  donkeys  which 
climbed  the  steep  incline  leading  from  the 
fountain. 

This  was  the  first  of  other  happy  walks,  for  in 
its  quaintness,  its  contrast  of  types,  its  traditions, 
and  its  isolation,  the  Rock  had  an  interest  which 
appealed  at  once  to  minds  sympathetic  with 
nature  and  man,  and  critical  with  the  wide  ex- 
perience of  Old  World  travel.     When  they  re- 

125 


126  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

turned  to  the  hotel,  they  were  aglow  with  the 
physical  response  of  their  exercise,  and  happy 
in  the  truer  understanding  of  the  ties  which  held 
their  lives,  though  this  was  the  knowledge  of 
intuition ;  for,  dreaming  of  the  future,  they  had 
spoken,  not  of  the  present,  but  of  the  past. 

Isabel  knew  nothing  of  Bentley's  expected 
arrival,  and  after  the  first  surprise  had  passed, 
accepted  it  with  a  happiness  which  confirmed  the 
revelation  her  heart  had  made,  when  she  saw  him 
standing,  unheralded,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
Bentley  offered  no  explanation  of  his  presence, 
and  chose  to  assume  that  Marsden  had  spoken  of 
his  coming,  though,  from  her  startled  greeting,  he 
was  certain  this  could  not  be  true.  She  asked  no 
questions;  and  he  volunteered  no  answers  to  the 
inquiry  her  mind  might  be  making,  for  he  felt  that 
silence  would  most  surely  prevent  either  being 
placed  in  a  false  position,  at  the  beginning  of  a 
voyage  where  circumstances  might  solve  natur- 
ally the  riddle  to  be  guessed. 

Bentley  had  loved  Isabel  Marsden  for  nearly 
a  year,  but  it  was  with  that  unquestioning  affec- 
tion, which  governs  unselfishly  the  springs  of 
being  without  revealing  the  nature  of  the  ruling 
force.  He  had  missed  her  with  longings  nothing 
could  soothe  into  forgetfulness,  and  had  known 
content  and  peace  only  when  she  was  near.     In 


HALCYON,  AHOY!  127 

the  disparagement  of  his  own  possibilities,  he 
believed  this  was  due  to  the  separation  of  two 
natures,  which,  complementing  each  other,  were 
in  accord,  and  he  gave  no  name  to  this  desire 
and  its  completeness,  until,  in  that  moment  of  sor- 
row, when  he  knew  it  was  a  love,  the  fruition  of 
which  seemed  hopeless. 

Though  Isabel  had  been  happy  with  Bent- 
ley,  she  realized  for  the  first  time,  when  they 
parted  at  Southampton,  how  much  he  had  be- 
come in  her  life.  With  this  knowledge  there 
were  born  longings  for  something  lost,  regrets  for 
things  done  and  undone,  and  struggles  for  accept- 
ance and  resignation.  In  the  end,  with  the  exer- 
cise of  that  reserve  power  which  enables  women 
to  bow  before  the  inevitable  that  men  impotently 
deny,  she  schooled  herself  to  accept  this  hopeless 
love,  if  not  for  the  best,  and  if  not  to  be  forgot- 
ten, at  least  as  something  to  be  hidden,  even  from 
herself. 

She  would  have  been  wanting  in  the  intuitive 
instinct  of  her  sex  had  she  failed  to  see  in  Bentley 
an  appreciation  and  a  care  for  her  which  had 
their  roots  deep  in  the  soil  of  a  true  affection ;  and 
if  she  could  not  determine  where  this  ended  and 
love  began,  it  was  because  she  did  not  know  that 
both  were  equally  hedged  about  by  cruel  bounds 
of  circumstance,     Isabel,  by  a  promise  given  to 


128  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

her  father  months  since — ah !  how  cheerfully  then, 
and  with  such  unquestioning  faith  in  her  strength 
to  keep  it — that  no  man's  love  should  ever  sepa- 
rate their  lives  ;  Bentley,  by  the  acceptance  of  an 
agreement  with  Marsden,  never  brutalized  by 
words  nor  penalized  by  vulgar  compact,  that  in 
his  association  with  Isabel  he  would  never  by 
word  nor  action  seek  to  win  her  love.  They  were 
both  honest  people  and  kept  these  promises,  fruits 
as  the  pledges  were,  of  that  selfishness  which  tries, 
with  a  cruel  egotism,  to  crush  the  strong-eyed, 
sun-nursed  love  that  ever  waits  and  rules. 

When  they  left  Marsden  that  morning,  he  had 
his  chair  carried  into  a  garden  near  the  Bay,  and 
looking  upon  the  blue  sky  and  bluer  water,  he 
lived  over  again  in  his  past  life. 

It  had  been  a  strange  and  cruel  one. 

Years  and  years  ago  there  was,  in  his  days 
of  wild  adventure,  one  experience  which  he 
thought  but  few  men  knew.  He  had  gone  to 
the  Pacific,  even  before  the  yellow  grains  in 
Sutter's  mill-creek  made  in  the  Occident  a  new 
Republic  built  upon  sand,  but  as  stable  as  the 
bed  rock  which  underlies.  He  had  traded  and 
mined  in  Mexico,  and  at  last  met  and  married, 
in  a  quiet,  drowsy  puebla  of  Upper  California,  the 
black-haired,  bright-eyed  daughter  of  Don  Felipe 
del  Gado,  to  whose  hacienda  he  had  been  brought, 


HALCYON,  AHOY!  129 

stricken  with  fever  and  sorely  jarred  by  travel,  from 
the  mines  of  the  Lower  Peninsula. 

There  was,  after  this  marriage,  a  year  or  more 
of  such  happiness  as  could  satisfy  a  nature  like 
his  in  a  land  where  the  sun,  blazing  upon  un- 
turned fields,  casts  shadows  only  under  the 
knarled  and  stunted  olive  trees  which  shake  their 
dusty  leaves  to  the  parching  breezes  blowing 
from  peaceful  seas.  He  could  not  enter  into  the 
dull  life  about  him,  and  not  knowing  its  spirit  nor 
its  compensations,  showed  a  contempt  that  brought 
him  the  dislike  and  hatred  of  the  race  with  which 
he  lived. 

Swinging  lazily  in  his  hammock  on  the  cool 
verandas,  or  riding  aimlessly  over  the  brown 
stretches  where  Don  Felipe  grazed  his  flocks,  it 
was  ever  with  the  same  thoughts, — bitter  regrets 
for  the  folly  which  tied  him  to  these  people,  use- 
less plans  and  plots  to  escape  from  the  thraldom 
of  the  land.  But  in  vain;  and  so,  through  dreary 
months  of  despair,  he  lived  in  the  benumbing  idle- 
ness of  that  semi-barbaric  valley. 

The  chance  for  release,  however,  dawned  at  last; 
for  one  day,  with  hurrying  hoof-beat  and  the  clat- 
ter and  jangle  of  steel  and  brass,  came  the  news 
of  the  gold  to  the  northward.  "  Gold !  by  the 
sainted  soul  of  Francisco  d'Assis ! "  cried  the 
dusty  and  spurred  rider  who  hoarsely  told  the 
9 


I30 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


story  as  he  rested,  on  his  way  to  the  south,  in 
the  moist,  cool  court-yard  at  noon.  "  Gold,  Don 
Felipe,  by  the  millions  ! — in  river,  in  hill,  in  val- 
ley, in  dried  quebradas  ! — and  to  be  had  for  the 
asking ! " 

In  a  week  from  that  night  Marsden  had  left  his 
home  forever.  He  had  spoken  to  his  wife  of  the 
chance  this  search  for  gold  offered,  even  during 
a  little  absence,  but  she  had  begged  him  to  wait, 
if  only  for  a  month ;  had  sued  and  prayed  for 
herself,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  child  that  was  yet 
to  be.  But  she  begged  in  vain,  though  he  gave 
her  a  lying  promise,  and,  even  as  he  kissed  her 
tears  away,  his  busy  mind  was  plotting  how  he 
should  go. 

And  so  at  midnight,  when  the  cheerless  fog 
drove  in  from  the  sea  where  Cape  Concepion 
shoves  its  headland  into  the  mist  and  rain,  he  rode 
warily  out  of  the  olive-grove  back  of  the  house, 
into  the  spectral  fields,  past  the  farm  and  pastures, 
through  the  chapparal  and  brush  and  northward. 
As  he  reached  a  bend  where  the  road  dipped  and 
was  hidden  from  the  home  that  had  cured  him  in 
sickness, — from  the  girl  who  loved  him  as  Chadi- 
zah  loved, — he  saw  through  a  window  facing  the 
sullen  east,  the  tremulous  gleam  of  the  taper 
which  ever  burned  in  his  wife's  room  before  the 
shrine  of  the  Blessed  Mother. 


HALCYON,  AHOY!  131 

When  daylight  came,  he  was  miles  away ;  when 
night  fell,  leagues  were  between  him  and  the  moan- 
ing wife,  stricken  by  grief  with  her  awful  agony; 
and,  as  he  rode  into  the  tent-crowded  plain  near 
the  Mission  of  San  Francisco,  humming  a  jocund 
air  of  liberty  and  watching  the  moon's  rays  in  the 
sea,  there  broke  upon  the  stillness  of  the  night  in 
the  South  the  first,  sad  wail  of  a  child  born  to  a 
heritage  of  woe. 

When  he  reached  the  diggings,  Marsden, — for 
he  resumed  the  name  which  he  had  abandoned, — 
toiled  and  struggled,  struggled  and  toiled,  with 
the  best  and  worst  of  the  people  about  him ;  and 
if  not  with  better  luck,  at  least  with  greater  profit, 
for  he  saved  what  he  took  from  the  earth  or  made 
in  barter.  Before  many  months  he  was  a  man  of 
note,  even  in  that  lawless  community;  and  with  a 
clear  head,  a  cool  judgment,  and  a  heart  which 
never  knew  an  unselfish  pulsation,  prospered  so 
much  beyond  his  best  hopes  that  in  the  end  he 
was  by  far  the  richest  man  in  the  camp. 

In  all  this  time  he  had  never  given  a  thought 
to  the  wife  he  had  left  behind,  and  she  passed 
away,  as  if  she  had  never  been,  in  the  mist  which 
the  search  for  gold  spun  around  the  life  he  had 
known. 

But  it  all  came  back  one  day  when  a  swarthy- 
skinned,  keen-eyed  native  rode  slowly  into  the 


132 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


valley  and  dismounted  at  his  cabin.  The  rider 
was  dusty  and  travel-stained,  and  his  face  was 
worn  with  the  weariness  of  physical  and  mental 
strain. 

When  Marsden  saw  him,  he  looked  to  his 
revolver,  hid  a  knife  in  his  shirt,  and,  with  a 
blanched  face,  stepped  out  of  the  hut;  for  this 
grimy,  wearied  rider  was  the  man  from  whom  he 
had  won  the  daughter  of  Don  Felipe,  the  one  per- 
son of  all  the  world  who  would  have  died  for  her. 

As  Pedro  de  Saldo  dismounted  he  left  his  pis- 
tols undisturbed  in  the  cumbrous  holsters,  and 
approaching  Marsden  with  a  face  that  never 
changed,  gave  him  a  letter,  soiled  with  handling 
and  sealed  with  crimson  patches  of  wax. 

De  Saldo  stood  quietly  awaiting  some  sign. 
When  Marsden  awoke  from  the  first  stupor  of 
surprise  he  muttered,  in  a  tone  which  was  meant 
to  be  cheery,  a  few  words  of  welcome,  and  offered 
his  hand.  But  the  Mexican  waved  it  quickly 
aside,  and  said, — 

"  No,  no,  Don  Henrico !  They  would  kill  me 
if  they  thought  I  had  touched  your  hand." 

Marsden  turned  to  the  busy  camp  as  if  looking 
for  help,  but  made  no  attempt  to  read  the  letter. 
Finally  he  asked  if  an  answer  was  wanted. 


HALCYON,  AHOY!  133 

"That  is  for  you  to  say,  not  now,  but  later, 
as  I  am  forbidden  to  carry  it.  There  is  news 
in  it  for  a  man  to  study  before  he  acts.  When 
you  are  ready  you  will  find  us  easier  than  I  have 
found  you,  for  I  have  searched  everywhere  in  the 
gold  camps  these  two  months.  We  did  not  know 
your  names  in  the  South ;  but  you  know  ours, 
and  whatever  answer  you  may  have,  send  it,  if 
you  please,  by  messenger,  to  the  Priest  of  the 
Mission  of  Santa  Catalina,  addressed  to  our 
Padre  Dominguez." 

The  Mexican  called  his  horse,  softly  stroked 
its  face,  and  tightened  the  girths  of  the  saddle. 
Then,  with  one  hand  clasping  the  stallion's  neck, 
he  said, — 

"  You  saved  me  once,  Don  Henrico,  from  the 
stampede  of  the  unbroken  colts.  I  have  never 
forgotten  that,  and  the  Padre,  knowing  this,  asked 
me,  of  all,  to  find  you.  It  will  be  well  for  you — 
and  I  advise  you  to  remember  this — never  to 
seek  the  hacienda  of  Don  Felipe  again — for  he, 
too,  is  dead.  Be  wise.  Live  and  die  here,  any- 
where, among  your  friends,  with  your  worst 
enemies — but  never  come  to  Casa  Blanca.  We 
are  a  good  people  only  where  we  love  or  honor, 
and  they  will  kill  you  there, — abajo" — he  mo- 
tioned with  his  hand  and  threw  back  his  head 
to  indicate  the   land   he   had   left, — "they  will 


134  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

kill  you, — even  I  would  try  to  kill  you  there, 
— abajoy 

He  lifted  himself  in  his  saddle  painfully,  stood 
for  a  moment  with  slack  bridle,  and  added, — 

"  Don  Henrico,  farewell  for  ever,  and  be  wise. 
We  have  a  proverb  born  of  our  land  and  homely 
ways, — listen :  '  The  wife's  curse  is  the  halter  of 
the  husband.'  Do  you  understand  that  ?  Try, 
for  it  means  much  to  you,  Don  Henrico,  and 
now,  adios." 

Marsden  watched  Pedro  de  Saldo  as  he  rode 
slowly  by  the  diy  brook,  up  the  little  hill,  out  of 
the  caiion,  and  into  the  brown  mountains  that 
walled  the  camp  from  the  outer  world,  and  then 
flung  a  curse  at  the  man  he  had  wronged. 

What  the  letter  contained  he  never  revealed ; 
what  he  thought  of  the  news  no  one  ever  knew ; 
for  in  vain,  during  many  days,  did  the  spurred  and 
booted  messenger  of  Padre  Dominguez  wait  at  the 
drowsy  mission  of  Catalina.  But  it  told  Marsden 
that  his  poor  wife,  sorely  stricken,  had  waited,  and 
waited,  and  waited,  with  patient  longing,  with  un- 
diminished trust,  until  the  pain  was  stilled,  and  the 
faith  had  its  higher  fulfillment — in  death. 

Weeks  afterward,  Don  Felipe,  whose  light  and 
air  she  had  been,  fell  ill  of  a  broken  heart.  The 
grim  old  pioneer  had  never  spoken  of  the  man 
who  had  wrecked  their  lives,  but,  in  the  last  days 


HALCYON,  AHOY!  135 

he  took  such  precautions  as  would — so  he  told 
the  priest — prevent  more  harm  coming  to  his 
blood  by  the  treachery  and  cruelty  of  the  Gringo, 

He  willed  his  property,  half  to  the  Church,  and 
half  to  Padre  Dominguez,  to  be  kept  in  trust  for 
the  support  of  his  daughter's  child  and  her  fos- 
ter-mother. These  two  he  sent  by  the  long  route 
of  the  land  to  the  eastern  seaboard,  and  thence, 
in  compliance  with  the  mother's  last  wish,  to  the 
country  of  her  husband.  But  Don  Felipe  hid  their 
tracks  so  completely,  that  Marsden,  even  had  he 
searched,  could  never  have  found  them.  Then, 
having  made  his  peace  with  God,  and  dictated 
to  the  Padre  the  few  lines  which  told  of  the  birth 
of  the  daughter  and  the  mother's  death,  he  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall,  and,  with  an  awful  prayer  for 
vengeance,  died — as  his  daughter,  his  Carmenita, 
had  died, — of  a  worn-out,  wearied  heart. 

Years  afterward,  Marsden  tried  to  find  some 
trace  of  the  child,  but  those  who  knew  the  secret 
were  dead,  and  it  had  disappeared  as  one  whose 
name  is  writ  in  water.  It  was  to  hide  the  memo- 
ries of  this  past,  and  with  some  dull  hope  of 
making  compensation  that,  five  years  later,  on 
his  return  to  New  York,  he  had  wooed  and  won 
the  mother  of  Isabel.  As  he  remembered  all 
these  things  now,  and  recalled  the  two  women 
who  had  died  for  him,  he  prayed,  that  by  his  treat- 


136 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


ment  of  Isabel,  forgiveness  might  be  granted  him 
for  his  neglect  of  the  child  he  had  never  known. 

The  days  of  waiting  in  Gibraltar  passed  pleas- 
antly. Bentley  had  heard  nothing  of  Lorrimore, 
until  Marsden  said,  one  morning, — 

"  By  the  way,  I  met  on  the  steamer  a  young 
American,  named  Lorrimore ;  he  is  a  shy,  retir- 
ing sort  of  chap  who  was  most  civil  to  me.  Just 
now  he  is  in  Tangiers,  but  may  return  at  any 
moment.  He  intends  sailing,  if  possible,  from 
Gibraltar,  and,  I  know,  would  be  delighted  to  go 
with  us.  I  have  not  asked  him  yet,  though,  if 
you  do  not  object, — for  I  concede  your  rights  in 
this  matter, — I  should  like  to  offer  him  a  passage 
in  the  Halcyon." 

"And  your  daughter  ?  "  replied  Bentley,  in  that 
selfishness  of  love  which  only  considers  how  this 
may  be  affected. 

"  Oh,  bless  you !  she  won't  care  one  way  or 
another.  She  hardly  knows  him.  And,  as  for 
Lorrimore,  it  is  not  a  case  oi  beaux yeux ;  at  least, 
not  of  Isabel's,  for  he  half  confessed  it  was  to 
escape  some  such  affair  at  home,  that  had  sent 
him  mooning  about  Tangiers  at  this  season  of 
the  year." 

"  I  am  sure,"  answered  Bentley,  "you  are  lucky 
to  have  found  Mr.  Lorrimore.  By  all  means  let 
him  come." 


HALCYON,  AHOY!  137 

When  the  Halcyon  did  not  arrive  upon  the 
morning  of  the  twenty-fifth,  Marsden  worked 
himself  into  such  a  furor  of  impatience,  that 
Bentley  and  Isabel  went,  in  self-defense,  for  a  long 
walk  to  the  plateau  of  the  Signal  Tower.  As 
they  came  down  the  Rock  toward  noon,  they 
saw  in  the  Bay  a  trim  merchant  ship,  slowly 
standing  up,  under  all  plain  sail,  for  the  anchor- 
age. Her  spars  were  lofty  and  tapering,  the 
cotton  canvas  was  snow  white,  and,  as  she 
forged  ahead,  her  motion  was  as  graceful  as  that 
of  a  bird,  poised  high  in  the  idleness  of  a  sum- 
mer twilight.  When  she  drew  past  their  point  of 
view,  the  sails  unmasked  the  fluttering  folds  of 
an  ensign,  its  galaxy  of  stars  standing  out  against 
the  white  of  the  canvas,  and  its  stripes  trembling 
as  a  flame  might  in  a  calm. 

They  watched  with  eager  curiosity,  as,  with  a 
tumble  of  foam,  she  shot  into  the  wind,  and,  in 
graceful  curve,  anchored  in  that  safe  holding 
ground,  which  lives  upon  the  bearing  between 
Mala  and  San  Roque. 

"  The  Halcyon,"  said  Bentley, — "  and  home." 

After  luncheon,  Captain  Waite,  of  the  Halcyon, 
called  upon  Marsden.  He  was  of  medium  height, 
with  the  broad  shoulders  and  sturdy  frame  which 
inspire  at  once  a  sense  of  confidence  in  a  man's 


138 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


powers  of  endurance.  His  eyes  were  bright, 
his  bronzed  face  was  frank  and  handsome,  and  a 
prompt  and  decisive  manner  was  softened  by  the 
cheery,  mellow  ring  of  a  voice  which  gales  had 
not  roughened.  His  bearing  was  hearty  and 
courteous,  as  he  turned,  with  a  ready  smile,  from 
one  to  another,  and  said  how  glad  he  would  be 
to  welcome  them  on  board. 

"  When  will  you  sail,  Mr.  Marsden  ?  "  he  asked, 
finally ;  "  for  you  are  part  owner,  and  I  am  under 
your  orders." 

"What  hour  will  suit  you  best;  for  we  are 
ready  to  go  at  any  time,"  Marsden  answered. 

"  Well, — how  will  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing do  ?  " 

"  Ten  o'clock,  let  it  be,  and  precious  glad  I  shall 
be  to  get  away,"  said  the  ungrateful  invalid. 

"  I  shall  send  a  boat  for  your  baggage  at  eight, 
and  another  one  for  you  at  nine.  That  will  give 
us  daylight  to  get  well  clear  of  the  land." 

"What  weather  do  you  expect?  "  asked  Bent- 
ley.  "That  means  a  stiff  breeze,  does  it  not. 
Captain  Waite  ?  " 

"  Good  weather  for  us,  Colonel.  What  these 
people  call  a  Levanter ;  that  is,  a  fine,  whole  sail, 
easterly  breeze,  which  will  put  a  bone  in  the  Hal- 
cyon's teeth,  and  leave  a  wake  as  straight  and  as 
white  as  a  skate  mark  on  the  ice." 


HALCYON,  AHOY!  13Q 

That  night  Captain  Waite  dined  with  his  pas- 
sengers, and  though  the  change  which  followed 
sunset  presaged  a  storm,  the  dinner  was  no  less 
merry  because  of  forebodings  for  the  morrow. 
Waite  told,  in  a  capital  style,  innumerable  sea- 
yarns — ghostly,  creepy  stories  of  uncanny  mis- 
adventure, and  breezy  tales  of  wreck  and  rescue. 
Marsden  came  out  wonderfully,  and  nautically, 
and  when,  at  last,  dinner  was  finished,  all  deemed 
themselves  fortunate  in  the  prospect  of  such  con- 
genial shipmates  for  the  voyage. 

As  Waite  was  leaving,  Lorrimore,  who  had 
just  arriv^ed  from  Tangiers,  came  into  the  room. 
Marsden  had  entirely  forgotten  him,  but  broached 
the  subject  of  the  trip,  and  receiving  a  glad  assent, 
presented  him  to  Waite  and  Bentley.  When 
these  two  went  out  to  smoke  their  cigars,  Lorri- 
more laughed  nervously,  and  said,  "  That  was  our 
fellow  passenger,  was  it  not  ?  and  the  other  was 
the  Captain  of  the  Halcyon  ?  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  Marsden,  but  what  did  you  say  their  names 
were  ?  Colonel  Bentley  and  Captain  Waite. 
Thank  you,  one  hardly  ever  gets  a  name  right  in 
these  hurried  introductions." 

Isabel  had  but  half  caught  the  meaning  of 
this  scene,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  her  father, 
who  explained,  hastily, — 

"  Mr.  Lorrimore,  my  dear,  has  consented  to 


140 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


accompany  us  in  the  Halcyon,  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  glad  to  welcome  him." 

She  spoke  the  graceful  words  her  father  ex- 
pected, and  with  a  courtesy  which  concealed  the 
surprise  and  discomfort  the  news  gave.  As  she 
was  leaving  the  room,  Lorrimore  opened  the  door 
and  said, — 

"  Thank  you.  Miss  Marsden,  nothing  could 
afford  me  more  pleasure  than  this  voyage,  and  I 
hope  to  prove  my  appreciation  in  every  way 
before  we  reach  home." 

At  this  moment  the  gray  hill  flamed  with  a 
cloud  of  light,  and  roared  and  grumbled  with  the 
echoes  of  the  evening  gun ;  the  mountains  and 
valleys  took  up  the  sound  and  echo,  and  as  this 
tocsin  of  England's  rule  rang  over  the  sea  and 
land,  the  haughty  challenge  was  heard  with 
dread  in  the  valleys  and  hills  of  the  African 
shore ;  heard  in  the  streets  of  Algeciras ;  heard 
on  mountains  and  on  ships  at  sea ;  and  always 
with  the  maledictions  of  those  who  waited  sul- 
lenly for  the  day  when  the  Spaniard  would  come 
to  his  own  again. 

When  the  echoes  died  the  rattle  of  drums,  the 
whistling  of  fifes  and  the  swinging  steps  of  trained 
men,  keeping  time  to  the  home  songs  of  Eng- 
land, burst  upon  the  silence,  and,  as  Marsden 
went  out  of  doors,  he  saw  the  night-guard  of  the 


HALCYON,  AHOY! 


141 


Rock  sturdily  marching  down  the  crowded  street 
Among  the  hurrying  throng  living  outside  the 
walls,  he  discovered,  under  the  glare  of  a  street 
lamp,  the  merry  face  of  Captain  Waite,  who  had 
stopped  and  called  to  Bentley, — 

"  Now  don't  forget,  Colonel,  mum's  the  word, 
eh  ?  Mum's  the  word ! " 

Marsden  looked  inquiringly,  fumbled  his  cigar, 
and  repeated  to  himself  querulously  the  words 
Waite  had  used.  Bentley  waved  his  hand  in 
answer,  but  as  he  did  not  offer  any  explanation, 
Marsden  asked  no  questions,  and  after  growling 
at  the  overcast  night,  returned  to  the  room  he 
had  left. 

What  had  happened  was  this.  When  Bentley 
and  Waite  reached  the  street,  and  lighted  their 
cigars,  the  latter  said, — 

"  Excuse  me,  Colonel,  but  do  you  ever  attend 
seances, — mediums,  I  mean,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  ?  No.  Well,  I  saw  you  took  more  or  less 
interest  in  some  of  those  stories  I  told  to-night, 
and  I  thought  you  might  be  equally  interested  in 
the  practical  investigation.  Facts,  every  one  of 
them.  But  you  don't  know  of  any  mediums 
here  ?  " 

Bentley  was  startled  by  this  abrupt  declara- 
tion, and  recalled  that,  during  dinner,  Waite  had 
dilated  with  curious  persistency  upon  the  subject 


142 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


of  apparitions,  materializations  and  spiritualistic 
phenomena  generally.  But  as  he  was  skeptical 
from  research,  he  concealed  his  surprise,  and, 
laughingly  replied  to  that  purport. 

"  So  was  I  once, but  from  prejudice,"  answered 
Waite,  "  and  I  don't  know  but  I  am  still,  though 
I've  seen  a  queer  lot  of  things  this  last  year,  and 
go  now  whenever  there  is  a  chance,  whether  I 
understand  the  lingo  or  not;  for  I'm  after  the 
truth,  Colonel, — yes,  sir;  and  I'm  bound  to  find  it." 

When  the  gun  fired  a  moment  later,  and  the 
Captain  turned  toward  the  Gate,  he  added, — "  By 
the  way,  Colonel,  don't  say  anything  about  my 
notions ;  old  men  and  ladies  get  skittish  over  this 
sort  of  thing,  and  always  think  you  are  a  spook 
or  a  lubber,  if  you  acknowledge  any  belief  in  it 
at  all." 

And  it  was  this  promise  which  made  Waite,  a 
little  way  down  the  street,  repeat,  laughingly,  the 
caution  Marsden  had  heard. 

Bentley  stood  upon  the  hotel  steps  smoking 
his  cigar,  and  watching  with  soldierly  interest  the 
troops  march  past.  The  music  rose  and  fell  in  the 
distance  with  remembered  melodies  of  his  war 
days,  and,  at  last,  in  the  Square  by  the  Guard- 
house, uprose  the  strains  of  that  national  anthem 
which  of  all  prayers  most  surely  encircles  the 
world.     When  this  was  ended,  silence  fell  as  a 


HALCYON,  AHOY! 


143 


mantle  upon  the  fortress  and  its  sleeping  town  ; 
the  wind  freshened  in  squalls,  and  roared  in  the 
hollows  of  the  Rock ;  lights  swayed  wearily  in 
the  rigging  of  anchored  ships,  as  if  begging  the 
rest  their  watch  denied ;  other  lights  died  out, 
one  by  one,  upon  the  rugged  hillside  ;  and  in  the 
quiet  streets  footsteps  awoke  resounding,  but  not 
unchallenged,  echoes  ;  for  the  hail  of  sentries  on 
shore  and  the  ringing  of  bells  on  ships  in  the  bay, 
— ^all  told  of  the  watch  the  English  kept  by  land 
and  sea,  all  warned  the  world  that  though  the 
Rock  may  slumber  in  the  sullen  night,  its  guar- 
dians never  sleep. 

But  of  those  who  watched  and  warded  the 
crouching  lion,  or  who  on  beds  of  sickness  or  of 
pain  prayed  for  dawn  or  death,  none  peered  with 
such  hopeless  eyes  into  the  darkness,  as  one  who 
sat  far  into  the  middle  watches  of  the  night,  look- 
ing from  a  window  of  the  hotel,  at  the  ghostly 
spars  Oi"  the  Halcyon. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HOMEWARD    BOUND. 

THE  morning  dawned  with  mist  and  drizzle. 
Clouds  hung  low  on  the  mountains  to  the 
eastward,  and  to  the  summit  of  the  Rock,  and  in 
its  hollows,  the  fog  clung  like  winding  sheets. 
Feathery  scud  flew  seaward,  and  heavy  squalls 
roared  in  the  skies,  and  spun  in  angry  eddies 
upon  the  waters  of  the  bay.  The  war  vessels 
rode  uneasily  at  their  moorings  off  the  Ragged 
Staff,  the  surf  dashed  in  spiteful  whirls  over  the 
sea-walls,  and,  in  the  Straits,  now  white  with  bil- 
lows, the  Levanter  drove  toward  the  Atlantic 
the  fleet,  which,  for  days,  had  been  wind  and 
current  bound,  between  Malaga  and  Cape  de 
Gatt.  The  white  houses  fringing  the  shore,  shiv- 
ered behind  the  mist-wreathed  walls,  and,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  African  coast,  grey  sails  rolled 
and  pitched,  as  they  ran  for  a  gale-blown  ocean. 
The  Halcyon  was  sheltered  from  the  storm  by 
the  anchorage  she  had  taken,  under  the  lee  of 
the  barrier  hill;  and,  as  she  swung  gently  on  the 
144 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  j^r 

waves,  showing  her  tapering  spars  distinctly 
against  the  sullen  skies,  she  looked  like  a  lily, 
lazily  swinging  in  a  pond  of  graceless  weeds. 
Aloft,  the  crew  were  making  the  final  prepara- 
tions for  sea,  and  in  the  snug  cabin,  the  steward 
was  busy  fitting  the  state-rooms  for  the  expected 
passengers.  At  half-past  nine  the  ship's  boat 
was  sent  to  the  water-port,  and  when,  by  ten, 
there  was  no  sign  of  its  return.  Captain  Waite 
became  uneasy  with  a  delay  which  might  alter 
all  his  plans.  He  walked  persistently  up  and 
down  the  deck,  giving  quiet  words  of  command, 
and  envying  his  brother  mariners,  who  were  fly- 
ing westward  before  the  favoring  breeze,  until,  at 
last,  for  lack  of  other  outlet,  he  said  to  the  first 
officer, — 

"  Looks  as  if  we  might  lose  the  strength  of 
the  wind,  Mr.  Coffin." 

"Yes,  sir;  likewise  losing  time.  I  am  all 
ready,"  replied  that  philosopher  from  Kenny- 
bunkport,  interrupting  himself  a  moment,  to 
roar  at  a  youngster  aloft,  who  was  seizing  on 
some  chafing  gear,  smooth  side  out.  "  That  is," 
he  continued,  "we  ain't  losing  as  much  as  we 
may  be  able  to  spare  later.  No,  sir'ree,  not  by  a 
jug  full,"  he  added  to  himself,  with  the  emphatic 
aphorism  by  which  he  resolved  all  doubts. 

"  Is  that  our  boat,  Mr.  Coffin,  under  the  lee  of 


146  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

the  felucca, — the  one  with  red  and  yellow  bow, 
down  there,  in  line  with  the  old  mole?"  asked 
Waite,  presently. 

"  That's  our  boat,  sir,"  Coffin  answered ;  "  and 
the  way  John  Johansen,  of  Christianstadt, — and 
be  damned  to  him,  for  a  thick-headed.  North 
countryman, — is  pulling  his  oar  in  a  sea  way, 
would  be  a  disgrace  to  any  ballyhoo  afloat,  much 
less  this  here  Halcyon,  and  I'll  let  him  know  it!" 

When  the  boat  came  alongside,  Marsden  was 
evidently  in  an  ill-humor,  for  owing  to  some 
misunderstanding,  he  had  been  delayed  at  the 
hotel,  and  was  now  ready  for  a  fierce  combat  of 
words  with  any  disputant  who  offered.  The 
captain  welcomed  them  cordially  on  board,  and, 
without  further  delay,  hailed  the  forecastle,  and 
ordered  the  chain  to  be  hove  short. 

It  was  not  a  gay  party  that  had  assembled,  for 
the  gloominess  of  the  day,  and  the  depression 
which  always  asserts  itself  when  a  voyage  is  to 
be  commenced,  had  brought  about  a  reaction  in 
the  feelings  of  all,  who  last  night  had  looked 
forward  so  joyously  to  the  embarkation  ;  but  the 
clink,  clink,  of  the  pawls,  and  the  rude  song  of 
the  crew,  as  they  hove  in  the  black  and  oozy 
chain,  made  a  music  which  soon  revived  the 
spirits  of  the  company.  The  weather  began  to 
look  more  promising,  as  the  mist  rose  from  the 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


U7 


land,  and  the  sky  cleared  in  patches  to  windward; 
and,  finally,  the  sun  appeared  at  times,  if  not  cheer- 
ingly  and  warm,  yet  with  that  brightness  which 
comes  and  goes  Hke  the  shifting  of  a  screen,  when 
the  heavens  are  a  watery  blue,  and  storm  clouds 
are  working  eagerly  to  leeward. 

"Avast  heaving,"  roared  Coffin,  as  the  chain 
tended  taut  as  a  harp  string,  and  straight  from 
the  Halcyon's  bow  to  the  mud-embedded  anchor ; 
and  then,  scampering  nimbly  aloft,  all  hands 
began  to  loosen  the  canvas.  As  sail  was  made, 
Isabel  and  Bentley  came  on  deck,  but  Marsden, 
who  was  wet,  and  angry,  and  sorry,  in  his  un- 
reasonable way,  that  he  had  left  the  hotel,  refused 
to  join  them. 

With  a  ringing  chorus,  and  a  quavering  solo, 
and  a  long,  long  pull,  and  a  strong  pull,  and  a 
pull  altogether,  the  topsails  were  set,  the  yards 
were  counter-braced,  the  anchor  was  lifted  to  the 
bow,  and  the  Halcyon,  moving  like  a  swan,  payed 
off  to  port,  stole  gracefully  through  the  surround- 
ing fleet,  and,  with  a  sturdy  breeze,  stood  upon 
her  course  for  the  Straits  beyond.  There  was  a 
gurgle  of  musical  water  under  her  bows ;  the 
foam  widened  in  sheets ;  the  sails  curved  with 
clear  cut  sweep ;  the  hull  listed  slightly  to  lee- 
ward ;  and  the  wake  stretched  landward  in  a  fur- 
row, as  straight  as  farmer  ever  made.     As  the 


148 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


Halcyon  drew  out  from  the  lee  of  Europa  Point, 
and  caught  the  full  force  of  the  Levanter,  the 
breeze  was  found  so  steady  and  sure,  that  sail 
was  made  to  to'gallant  sails. 

They  were  soon  in  the  midst  of  the  outward 
bound  shipping,  and,  as  the  ship  overhauled  and 
passed  the  dullards,  the  spirits  of  all  on  board 
arose,  and  they  looked  gratefully  at  the  straining 
canvas,  the  trembling  wind  pennants,  and  the 
muscular  helmsman,  who  swung  so  steadily  the 
guiding  wheel.  When  the  anchors  were  stowed, 
Coffin  came  aft,  and,  after  getting  a  pull  here, 
and  a  pull  there,  till  every  thread  of  canvas  drew 
to  his  satisfaction,  said  complacently  to  Bentley, — 

"  She's  a  humming-bird.  Colonel ;  she's  got 
the  bit  between  her  blessed  teeth,  and  we  can't 
hold  her.  She's  a  flyer  and  no  mistake, — ^yes, 
sir'ree." 

"  She  certainly  is  going  very  fast,"  answered 
Bentley.     "  Is  this  her  best  point  of  sailing  ?" 

"  She  hasn't  any.  They're  all  the  same,  by 
the  wind  or  before  it,  with,  perhaps,  a  leetle 
difference  in  her  favor,  when  the  breeze  comes 
over  the  quarter  and  she  can  carry  her  r'yals 
without  strain."  As  Coffin  looked  about  him, 
criticizing  the  vessels  in  sight,  he  laughed  with  a 
mechanical  chuckle,  and  said, — 

"  Look  at  that  drogher.  Colonel,  away  off  there 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  j^g 

to  the  eastward;  we're  going  tvv^o  feet  for  Iier  one, 
and  before  we  reach  Spartel,  we'll  leave  her,  hull 
down.  Yes,  sir ;  the  Halcyon  is  a  clipper,  and 
just  now,  it  seems  as  if  all  the  New  York  girls 
had  hold  of  her  tow-line." 

Isabel  was  delighted  with  this  new  experience, 
and  such  was  the  exhilaration  of  the  race  for  the 
ocean,  that  Marsden,  who  came  on  deck,  con- 
fessed it  was  something  like  sailing,  after  all.  As 
Gibraltar  became  an  indistinct  mass  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  sunlight  glinted  warmly  on  Tarifa,  and 
with  a  moderate  sea,  balmy  temperature,  clear 
sky  and  strong  breeze,  the  Halcyon  found  a 
perfect  day.  By  sundown  a  good  westing  had 
been  made,  and  when  the  departure  was  taken 
from  Cape  Spartel,  the  stars  came  out  with  the 
promise  of  a  clear,  bright  night. 

Just  before  the  darkness  fell  Coffin  sidled  up 
to  Bentley,  and  said,  pointing  up  the  Straits, — 

"  There  she  is.  Colonel,  there's  the  old  drogher. 
I  was  second  mate  of  her  once,  and  they  call  her 
the  Sea  Witch.  Fine  Sea  Witch,  she  is,  though 
she's  lost  none  of  her  old  tricks ;  for  there  she 
ambles  like  a  rocking-horse  adrift  in  a  tideway, 
flying  our  flag,  hull  down,  and  all  the  Daygoes, 
Johnnie  Greeks  and  Dutch  Galliots  beating  her 
like  smoke." 

The  dinner  brought  upon  the  anxious  steward 


ISO 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


a  shower  of  merited  compliments ;  the  good 
spirits  of  the  captain  were  infectious,  and  Mars- 
den  so  far  forgot  his  former  annoyance,  as  to  say 
that  he  had  never  spent  a  better  day  in  his  Ufa. 
Lorrimore  retired  to  his  room  early,  for  he  was 
a  poor  sailor,  and  when  the  others  went  on  deck, 
it  was  nearly  eight  bells. 

The  night  was  beautifully  clear,  the  Levanter 
had  lost  its  fury,  and  with  all  sail  set,  the  Hal- 
cyon stole  like  a  ghost  under  the  eternal  stars. 
Marsden  and  Isabel  were  enthusiastic  with  the 
swift  but  easy  movement  of  the  ship,  for  accus- 
tomed, as  they  were,  to  trans-Atlantic  trips  on 
steamers,  the  absence  of  the  jar  and  clangor  of 
the  machinery,  and  of  the  din  made  by  the  pas- 
sengers moving  about  the  decks,  gave  them  a 
sense  of  peace  and  security  which  they  had  never 
before  experienced.  Marsden,  with  a  vigorous 
assertion  of  the  good  hours  he  intended  to  keep, 
went  below  at  nine  o'clock,  and  left  Bentley  and 
Isabel  sitting  to  leeward,  watching  the  phosphor- 
escent water  and  hearing  the  sturdy  song  of  the 
sea. 

Finally,  she  said,  with  an  anxious  questioning 
in  her  voice, — 

"  Do  you  think  this  voyage  will  benefit  my 
father  ?  " 

"  It  will  benefit  him  and  all  of  us,"  he  replied, 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


151 


cheerfully,  "  for  with  the  exceptions  of  the  run 
from  the  west  coast  of  South  America  to  Poly- 
nesia, or  the  trip  through  the  Inland  Sea  of 
Japan,  there  is  nothing  to  compare  with  the 
southern  passage,  at  this  season  of  the  year." 

"  Nothing  could  be  better  than  its  commence- 
ment. It  has  revived  his  spirits  already,  and  to 
me  it  is  a  fairy-land, — one  where  the  immortals 
sleep,  and  which  will  fade  with  daylight." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  glad  smile,  rejoicing 
in  this  mood,  and  answered, — 

"  Does  fairy-land  ever  pass  away  ?  Is  it  not 
always  awaiting,  anxious  to  reveal  its  beauties  to 
us,  and  do  we  not  bann  it  with  sordid  cares  ?  " 

"  Mine  is  surely  here,"  she  said,  "  and  it  is  one 
where  fairies  could  not  live,  for  there  is  no  green 
ring,  nor  flowery  bank,  nor  opening  blossoms 
where  these  good  people  sleep." 

As  he  turned  to  look  upon  the  encircling 
waters,  he  pointed  over  the  starboard  quarter, 
and  added, — 

"  And  there  are  its  pilot  stars." 

As  she  looked,  the  red  and  green  lights  of  a 
vessel,  steering  more  to  the  south'ard,  rose  and 
fell  in  graceful  salutation  upon  the  sea.  The 
signals  grew  brighter,  the  sails  loomed  in  the 
darkness,  the  gear  made  a  tracery  against  the 
sky,  and  as  the  ship  passed  under  the  stern,  they 


152 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


saw  the  cheerful  glimmer  of  the  cabin  windows, 
and  heard  the  sturdy  chorus  of  the  watch  trim- 
ming the  after  yards. 

"  What  companionship  there  is,  even  in  such  a 
distant  greeting  as  that,"  he  said,  when  the  ship 
faded  in  the  night.  "  And  a  sad  one,  too,  for  it 
may  be  the  last  message  of  the  land  until  we  see 
the  lights  of  home." 

"There  is  a  sense  of  companionship  in  it," 
Isabel  returned,  "and  already  I  miss  it  as  a 
friend — as  an  unknown  friend,  who  has  done  in 
secret  an  unselfish  act." 

"  Does  the  prospect  of  this  isolation  alarm 
you  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  This  thought  of  the  lone- 
liness which  may  be  yours  for  many  days?" 

"  No,  because  it  is  a  loneliness  which  is  never 
without  hope.  Each  day,  one  can  believe,  will 
bring  the  long-expected  ship,  each  night,  the 
friendly  light.     After  all,  it  is  like  life." 

"  Not  like  all  lives,"  he  said,  with  some  little 
bitterness ;  "  for  to  many  who  have  tried  to  de- 
serve better  things,  there  never  can  be  a  sail  on 
any  sea,  nor  in  any  night,  a  light." 

"  That  is  not  the  philosophy  of  your  life.  Col- 
onel Bentley,  is  it?  You  know,  we  agreed  to 
accept  my  optimism  as  the  truer  theory  of  living. 
Confess,"  she  added,  with  a  smile,  "that  my 
belief  is  the  better." 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


153 


"  So  much  better,"  he  exclaimed,  quickly, 
"  that  I  have  tried  to  disown  and  deny  the  ex- 
perience, which  will  not  let  me  acknowledge  it 
is  always  true." 

"  I  can  understand,"  she  said,  "  how  men  who 
deal  with  affairs,  can  share  with  you  this — what 
shall  I  call  it  ? — this  doubt,  negation.  But  what 
has  there  ever  been  in  my  life  to  make  me  believe 
other  than  I  do.  I  have  returned  so  little  for  all 
I  have  received, — indeed,  I  am  so  powerless, — 
that  to  doubt  would  be  a  treason,  doubly  evil  for 
its  ingratitude." 

"  What  is  the  Persian  proverb,  done  in  halting 
verse  ?  "  he  asked,  smilingly, — 

"  '  The  sun  no  love  asks  from  the  rose, 
The  flower's  life,  this  guerdon  shows.' 

You  have  neglected  no  duty,"  he  continued, 
"  not  because  it  has  been  any  easier,  I  fancy,  ex- 
cept in  the  escape  which,  like  most  women,  you 
have  had  from  the  experiences  that  prove  how 
impossible  it  is  to  act  equally  by  all  men.  Op- 
timism is  beautiful ;  it  is  a  delicate  flower,  born 
of  the  sunshine  and  the  dew,  while  pessimism  is 
a  rank  weed,  forcing  itself  in  barren  wastes ;  you 
expect  something  from  the  flower,  nothing  from 
the  weed,  even  if  it  be  a  plant,  the  virtues  of 
which  are  undiscovered.  But  pessimism  is  rugged. 


154 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


and  coarse,  and  comfortable,  in  the  freedom  from 
care  it  gives  to  him  who  owns.  It  saves  one  from 
fatiguing  enthusiasms,  and  furnishes  arguments 
which  can  fit  every  individual  case  somewhere." 

"Ah!  but  you  must  forget  this  creed,"  she 
insisted,  "lest  this  isolation,  which  you  feared 
for  the  rest  of  us,  appalls  you,  even  with  your 
early  sea-training." 

If  he  could  have  told  her  that  in  this  world 
there  had  never  been  a  greater  happiness  than  to 
sit  in  the  starlight  with  her,  where  the  world  was 
a  poem ;  if  he  had  but  dared  whisper  that  with 
her  there  could  be  no  loneliness ;  or  if  he  had 
known  that  her  glad  faith  in  life  was  never 
stronger  than  to-night,  because  they  were  read- 
ing this  story  of  love  and  life  together. 

He  answered  her  cheeringly. 

"  No,  sea-life  never  was  distasteful  to  me ;  and 
I  have  never  been  fully  satisfied  since  I  left  my 
first  profession,  and  I  have  known  days  when  its 
poetry  was  duller  than  any  prose.  The  sea  was 
my  first  love,  to  be  a  sailor  my  earliest  ambition, 
and  I  have  often  thought  the  failures  following  my 
attempts  at  various  things,  grew  out  of  the 
knowledge  that  I  had  begun  with  a  mistake  by 
resigning.  Until  a  year  ago,  I  was  more  lonely 
on  shore  than  afloat,  even  at  its  worst;  and  I 
pitied  no  one  so  much  as  myself     It  was  for 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


155 


this  I  gave  up  all  active  life,  and  it  is  a  truth^ 
that  when  I  withdrew  most  from  men  and  affairs, 
I  became  most  happy  because  I  was  less  lonely." 

"  Such  is  the  justification  of  the  cynic,  is  it 
not?  "  she  asked.  "And  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
of  that  unhappy  sect" 

"  No,  because  cynicism  is  first  an  affectation, 
then  a  habit.  I  had  nothing  which  induced  me 
to  pose  for  what  I  was  not,  and  I  know  too  much 
of  the  possibilities  of  other  men  to  have  acquired 
the  habit  My  contentment  in  the  world  of 
dreams  was  due  to  other  things." 

"  Then  there  is  hope  for  you,"  she  replied,  "  as 
there  is  for  all  of  us." 

"Do  you  think  so ?  Sometimes  I  have  tried 
to  believe  this, — but  where  is  the  truth  ?  " 

As  four  bells  rang  out  musically,  and  the  hail 
of  the  lookout  followed,  she  rose  to  go.  With  an 
impulse  he  could  not  restrain,  Bentley  touched 
her  arm  lightly,  and  said, — 

"  You  do  not  answer  me.  Is  it  because  that 
would  be  asking  you  to  give  too  much  of  your 
faith  to  one  who  deserves  it  so  little  ? "  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  when  she  did  not  speak, 
continued :  "  But  you  are  right,  and,  perhaps, 
silence  is  the  better  answer." 

"  No,"  she  replied,  resolutely,  "  that  would  be 
unfair;    the  physician  who  diagnoses  a  disease 


1^6  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

should  not  be  without  a  remedy.  There  is  hope 
for  you  everywhere ;  in  the  world  you  have  left, 
in  the  ambitions  you  have  forsaken,  in  the  ideals 
you  still  cling  to,  in  the  world  you  are  seeking, 
— there,  here,  everywhere.  But  it  must  come 
from  yourself,  and  by  achievement,  otherwise,  it 
is  so  lightly  gained  that  it  will  be  as  lightly 
lost." 

He  walked  to  windward  with  her,  and,  as  they 
reached  the  rail,  said, — 

"  Again  you  are  right,  and,  at  times,  I  have  be- 
lieved that  I  was  in  the  road  which  reveals  this  truth, 
— I  know  it  now.  Let  me  tell  you  how.  Once, 
years  ago,  and  in  some  other  sphere, — if  you  will, — 
when  I  was  appalled  by  the  failure  I  had  made 
of  my  opportunities,  an  influence  came  into  my 
life  with  the  greatest  good  it  has  ever  known." 

"A  permanent  good,  I  hope,"  she  exclaimed, 
as  he  hesitated  for  an  instant. 

"  Thank  God,  yes !  it  is  unchanging.  I  was 
wandering  aimlessly,  though  not  altogether  un- 
happy, for  I  had  put  aside  ambitions  which  were 
fruitless,  and  my  purpose  was  to  attain  a  growth, 
an  evolution,  a  development,  where  I  would  find 
peace.  This  influence  slipped  into  my  life  un- 
consciously, and  gave  me  first,  rest ;  next,  peace ; 
then,  best  of  all,  hope.  It  brought  me  strength  to 
wait,  to  endure,  and  to  suffer,  if  need  be.     From  it 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  157 

I  learned  how  much  evil  my  fear,  my  moral  cow- 
ardice, and  my  hesitation,  were  working,  and  the 
faith  gained  from  this  knowledge  I  have  not 
lost" 

"And  this  influence?"  asked  Isabel,  leaning 
over  the  taffrail  to  look  at  the  gleaming  water 
rushing  past. 

"Was  a  woman — " 

"A  wdman  !  "  she  repeated.  "  It  must  have  been 
a  rare  privilege  for  any  woman  to  work  such  good. 
But  she — what  of  her  life?" 

"It  was  to  me,"  he  answered,  earnestly,  "a 
part  of  everything  beautiful  around  me ;  I  saw  it 
in  every  picture,  read  it  in  every  poem.  It  was 
in  the  sea,  in  the  sky,  in  the  land,  and  every- 
where it  was  pure  and  true." 

"  You  will  never  see  her  again  ?"  she  asked,  half 
sadly. 

He  offered  his  hand,  and  helped  her  carefully 
down  the  weather  ladder,  for  the  motion  of  the 
ship  was  unsteady  enough  to  make  these  little 
courtesies  possible  ;  then,  taking  off  his  hat,  and 
standing  where  the  light  from  the  cabin  door 
wliich  he  opened  flooded  the  deck,  and  left  them 
both  in  shadow,  he  answered, — 

"  I  see  her  always  and  as  gratefully  and  happily 
as  I  see  you  now,  for  it  is  the  truth  that  your  life 
teaches  which  has  given  me  my  faith  and  hope." 


1^8  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

She  came  out  of  the  shadow,  stood  a  moment 
in  the  light  and  looked  at  him  steadfastly ;  then 
with  an  inclination  of  her  head  and  a  salutation 
which  was  so  low  as  to  be  undistinguishable, 
she  passed  into  the  cheerful  cabin. 

Bentley  was  deeply  moved  by  all  that  had 
occurred.  He  did  not  dare  question  himself  as 
to  the  effect  or  propriety  of  what  he  had  done, 
for  the  impulse  had  been  uncontrollable  and  he 
had  arrived  at  a  stage  when  complete  resistance 
would  have  seemed  a  disloyalty.  He  had  spoken 
no  word  of  love  or  loving,  but  he  could  not  deny 
that  he  hoped  she  might  learn  how  deep  his  affec- 
tion was.  In  the  first  flush  of  excitement  he  was 
sure  he  had  done  only  what  his  manhood  asserted 
should  be,  but  later,  he  was  filled  with  dreary 
doubts,  that,  perhaps,  he  had  said  too  much,  or 
that  the  manner  of  his  avowal  had  been  too  ab- 
rupt. He  could  justify  his  action  in  its  relation 
to  Marsden,  but  he  feared  if  she  should  misjudge 
him  there  would  be  an  end  forever  to  the  asso- 
ciation which  had  become  a  necessity  of  his  life. 

He  lighted  his  cigar,  walked  irresolutely  for  a 
while,  went  to  the  rail,  and,  without  seeing  any- 
thing of  his  surroundings,  was  calmed  and  cheered 
by  the  beauty  of  the  night. 

The  breeze  was  fresh  and  pungent,  as  if  in  it  were 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


159 


commingled  the  saltness  of  the  outer  deeps  and  the 
cedar,  myrrh  and  frankincense  of  the  African  land 
they  were  leaving ;  the  horizon  was  an  unbroken 
circle  of  light,  and  to  windward,  silvery  clouds 
were  sailing  where  the  moon,  in  its  wane,  looked 
down  upon  a  crescent  of  tremulous  waves.  There 
was  no  sound  about  the  spectral  decks,  save  where 
the  watch  gathered  under  the  weather  rail,  was 
listening  with  deep  interest,  to  the  high-pitched 
monotone  of  a  man-of-war's  man,  who  was  tell- 
ing, as  his  personal  experiences,  the  adventures 
of  many  a  hero,  dead  before  he  was  born.  The 
lookout  forward  was  silhouetted  against  the  head 
stays ;  and  aft,  the  second  mate,  new  to  his  re- 
sponsibilities, walked  zealously  from  the  wheel 
to  the  weather  rigging,  and  looked  alternately  at 
the  compass  and  the  horizon  which  told  only  of 
a  quiet  watch. 

As  Bentley  glanced  through  the  cabin  sky- 
light, he  saw  Marsden  and  the  captain  sitting 
over  a  steaming  glass  of  grog,  and  finally  heard 
a  boisterous  good-night  as  the  latter  came  on 
deck  for  his  last  look  at  the  w^eather.  When 
he  saw  Bentley,  Waite  said,  and  this  somewhat 
noisily, — 

"Not  a  bad  day's  w^ork.  Colonel,  for  a  deep- 
laden  ship,  and  where  was  there  ever  a  finer  night 
for  getting  clear  of  the  land  ?     If  this  breeze  holds 


l6o  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

we  will  make  our  westing  and  run  down  for  the 
Trades  before  Sunday." 

"  It  is  a  perfect  night  and  the  Halcyon  has  done 
capitally,"  Bentley  responded,  cordially.  "  I  con- 
gratulate you  not  only  upon  the  ship  but  upon 
your  crew.  They  are  as  neat,  two-handed  sailors 
as  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  None  better  ;  no  sea-lawyers  nor  growlers 
among  them ;  strong  and  willing,  with  plenty  of 
good  wishes,  and  both  hands  for  ship  and  owners, 
and  that  is  a  great  deal  in  these  degenerate  days 
of  stokers." 

The  captain  walked  aft,  looked  at  the  compass, 
and,  declining  the  cigar  Bentley  offered  him,  con- 
tinued,— 

"  But  they  are  no  better  for'a'd  than  they  are  aft. 
I  have  two  as  good  mates  as  there  are  afloat.  Coffin 
has  had  his  ship,  and  there  is  a  lot  of  good  timber 
in  this  youngster."  He  called  the  mate,  gave  him 
some  instructions  for  the  night,  and  said, — 

"This  ought  to-be  a  lucky  voyage  all  around, 
and  if  for  no  other  reason  than  the  bright  eyes 
and  sweet  voice  of  Miss  Marsden,  who  has 
brought  us  this  good  fortune  at  starting." 

Bentley  was  pleased  at  the  heartiness  of  this, 
and  replied, — 

"Yes,  but  none  better  than  the  wishes  she 
makes  for  you  and  the  ship." 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  i6i 

"That's  kind  of  her,"  returned  the  captain, 
warmly,  "  and  I  know  the  Halcyon  will  deserve 
her  good  opinion.  How  bright  the  stars  are ! "  he 
added ;  "  and  look  at  Polaris.  Really,  the  faithful 
old  boy  is  winking  with  joy  to  see  my  barky,  reel- 
ing off  the  knots  for  home.  Sorry  you  didn't  come 
below.  Colonel ;  Mr.  Marsden  and  I  have  had  a 
jolly  night.  He  is  a  clever  man,  with  a  wonder- 
ful knowledge  of  everything,  though  we  do  differ 
upon  some  subjects.  But  who  don't?  Well,  I 
think  I'll  turn  in." 

The  captain  stretched  his  arms  at  full  length, 
and  drew  in  a  great  breath  of  sea  air. 

"  There,  that  w^ould  win  a  yacht  race,  and  as  it 
is  my  night-cap,  I  will  sleep  upon  it  like  the  re- 
lief of  an  anchor  watch." 

Soon  after  seven  bells,  Marsden  came  on  deck. 

"Hello!"  he  said.  "How  are  you?  Still 
mooning  ?  " 

"  Not  that  exactly,"  answered  Bentley,  coming 
back  to  earth  by  a  strong  pull,  "  moralizing." 

"  Moralizing !  give  it  up,  it  is  indictable." 

"  No,  it  was  about  you,  just  now,"  returned 
Bentley. 

"  About  me,"  inquired  Marsden,  "  that  is  still 
worse,  it  means  conviction.  How  can  you  mor- 
alize about  a  poor  creature  without  morals  ?  " 

"No,  I  was  wondering  what  you  were  doing 
II 


1 62  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

out  of  bed  at  this  hour,  if  you  expected  to  find 
any  health  in  the  voyage.  I  heard  you  at  six 
this  morning,  and  here  seven  bells  have  gone 
already." 

"  Hang  seven  bells !  I  came  up  to  look  at  the 
weather,  and  to  see  if  everything  was  all  right. 
That  is  nautical,  is  it  not  ?  I  have  had  a  delight- 
ful evening.  Waite's  a  capital  fellow,  overflowing 
with  the  most  considerate  and  unobtrusive  kind- 
ness, and  filled  with  the  most  interesting  yarns. 
But  he  has  a  bee  in  his  bonnet.  Has  he  ever 
said  anything  to  you  of  his  seances,  and  the 
great  work  he  is  compiling." 

Bentley  was  sorry  to  learn  Waite  had  aired 
this  subject,  but  he  parried  the  question  deftly, 
and  answered, — 

"  Oh,  that  is  only  a  sea  luxury.  This  ship 
speaks  for  him,  and  in  all  my  time,  I  have  never 
seen  anything  better  handled." 

"  He's  a  thorough  seaman,  I  should  say,  though 
I  do  not  know  anything  about  it,"  replied  Mars- 
den;  "but,  bless  your  soul,  he  is  daft  on  spirit- 
ualism. For  the  last  two  hours,  more  or  less,  he 
has  been  telling  the  most  creepy  yarns,  every  one 
with  a  delightful  ghost,  who  proved  some  theory. 
He  has  a  book  as  big  as  an  unabridged  diction- 
ary, filled  with  proofs;  and  his  authorities, — 
my   head    aches   with    them, — how   he    mixed 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


163 


them  !  There  were  esoteric  Buddhists  and  Brah- 
mins, Swedenborg,  Mrs.  Crowe,  Kabbalistic 
Jews,  Hume,  Rosicrucians,  Jacob  Boehmen, 
Slade,  Paracelsus,  Mrs.  Hardinge,  the  Eddys, 
Pythagoras,  Sergeant  Cox,  and  all  the  rest  of 
them,  not  forgetting  the  deceased  and  lamented 
Samuel  Wheeler.  He  is  a  Psychic  Society  all 
by  himself  Why,  Bentley,  his  reasons  are  as 
plent}^  as  blackberries,  to  prove  that  '  they ' — as 
he  calls  the  uneasy  departed — are  all  about  us." 

"  I  suppose  his  sea  reading  is  a  little  mixed, 
but,"  insisted  Bentley,  trying  to  remove  any  idea 
which  might  react  by  weakening  Marsden's  con- 
fidence in  Waite,  "  he  is  an  excellent  navigator, 
and  has  a  reputation  that  is  not  confined  to  the 
merchant  service." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid  of  my  misjudgment — there 
is  nothing  incompatible  between  sighting  spooks 
and  getting  the  ship's  position.  But,  by  the  way, 
Bentley,  he  is  awfully  down  on  your  friends,  the 
adepts.  He  scorns  Blavatsky,  and  has  never 
heard  of  Eliphas  Levi.  He  admits  that  many 
mediums  are  not  to  be  trusted,  but  he  is  certain 
that  all  you  Theosophists  are  possessed  by  the 
devil,  and  proper  subjects  for  serious  poHce 
inquiry." 

"  You  do  not  mean  he  discussed  Theosophy 
with  you  ?  "  asked  Bentley. 


164 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"Discussed  it,"  roared  Marsden,  "he  did  bet- 
ter ;  he  settled  it,  in  three  minutes,  by  the  clock. 
But  I  must  bring  you  together  in  a  symposium, 
and  then,  look  out  for  your  spiritual  dynamics," 

Bentley  laughed  quietly,  at  this  fanfaronade  of 
Marsden's,  and  asked, — 

"  But  don't  you  think  it  better  not  to  encour- 
age these  discussions  ?  " 

"  Not  encourage  him,"  repeated  Marsden,  "  I 
would  not  lose  him  for  my  share  in  the  ship. 
My  dear  boy,  he  is  a  mine  of  intellectual  devel- 
opment and  wonder  to  me.  When  you  find  a 
thin,  long-haired,  cadaverous  chap,  who  takes  in 
stray  five-penny  bits  by  materializing  your  long- 
lost  Indian  maidens,  your  Mr.  Gruffs,  and  dear 
little  Effies,  you  accept  it  as  a  matter  of  cheerful 
robbery;  but  here  is  a  strong,  beefy,  breezy 
sailor,  who  is  producing  at  sea  a  magnum  opus, 
and  demolishes  in  seven  seconds,  by  his  chro- 
nometer, a  wonderful  philosophy,  which  the  in- 
heritors of  the  Magian,  the  Chaldean,  the  Egyp- 
tian, and  the  Rishis,  have  built  up — and  you  ask 
me  not  to  encourage  him?  I  shall  do  better. 
I  shall  feed  him  with  interrogation,  go  with  him 
to  his  seances,  dote  upon  his  materialization,  and, 
at  the  proper  season,  turn  on  my  dark  lantern, 
and  seize  the  charlatan,  with  all  the  parapher- 
nalia, red-handed,  upon  her  or  him,  as  the  case 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  igr 

may  be.  But,  I  say,  Bentley,  it  would  be  a  bad 
lookout  for  us,  if  he  fancied  he  could  see,  in  en- 
tranced vision,  five  thousand  miles,  or,  steering 
by  the  advice  of  a  materialized  Captain  Cook, 
land  us  somewhere  on  the  Florida  reefs." 

"  You  will  find  his  navigation  as  right  as  his 
seamanship,"  declared  Bentley,  "and  that  this 
dallying  with  fourth  dimensions,  and  his  accu- 
mulation of  facts  relating  to  spiritual  phenomena, 
are  as  harmless,  if  not  so  amusing,  as  a  collection 
of  the  good  things  said  in  your  old  exchange." 

"  Well,  I  hope  so — but,  what,  in  the  name  of 
Benbow  and  Nathaniel  Bowditch,  is  that  terrific 
row  forward  ?  Is  it  a  mutiny  or  a  round-robin  ? 
— you  always  have  those  in  the  personally  con- 
ducted sea  novel,  don't  you  ?  " 

It  was  the  calling  of  the  watch  below ;  and  as 
the  quaint  and  rough  summons  awoke  the  quiet- 
ness of  the  night,  and  the  port-watch  tumbled 
sleepily  on  deck,  Marsden  went  to  his  room. 

Bentley  waited  a  little  while,  for  now  that  the 
excitement  was  gone,  he  was  pursued  by  the  fear 
he  had  said  too  much  to  Isabel ;  had  alarmed 
her,  perhaps,  for  when  she  passed  into  the  light, 
he  saw  that  her  face  was  white  and  her  eyes  were 
blurred  with  tears.  But  he  had  cast  the  die  and 
his  heart  had  burst  the  barriers,  not  only  with 
the  need  of  showing  the  truth  it  had  held  so 


1 66  -^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

wearily  and  with  such  misery,  but  of  telling  her 
that  she  had  opened  for  him,  in  his  desolation,  a 
pathway  to  earnest  labor,  without  which  his  life 
would  have  been  as  nothing. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A   DARK   NIGHT. 


GOOD  weather  followed  the  Halcyon.  The 
Captain  shaped  a  course  to  pass  between 
the  Madeira  and  Canary  Islands,  though  he  did 
not  haul  to  the  southward  until  the  ship  had  run 
far  enough  west  to  avoid  the  calms,  which  at  that 
season  are  often  found  inside  of  the  tenth  meri- 
dian. By  the  time  the  blue  skies  and  steady 
northeast  trades  were  reached,  the  passengers  had 
fallen  naturally  into  the  routine  of  shipboard  life. 
Everybody  was  sure  the  voyage  had  been  a 
happy  inspiration,  but  no  one  more  than  Mars- 
den,  who  was  delighted  with  the  compensations 
in  health  and  quiet  pleasure  which  he  received. 
He  passed  the  best  part  of  each  day  on  deck,  and 
evinced  such  interest  in  the  novelties  of  ship 
management,  that  finally  he  ventured  with  airy 
persiflage  to  be  oracular  about  principles  of 
seamanship  and  wise  in  prophecies  of  wind  and 
sea. 

Isabel's  relations  with  Bentley  were  unaltered ; 

167 


1 68  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

and  happy  in  the  certainty  that  his  fears  had  beea 
idle,  he  accepted  the  conditions  of  his  environ- 
ment as  idyllic.  Lorrimore  suffered  much  in  the 
beginning  from  sea-sickness  and  from  the  con- 
finement it  necessitated,  but  when,  at  the  end  of  a 
week,  he  came  on  deck  looking  pale  and  ill, 
he  received  their  congratulations  with  an  opti- 
mism which  confessed  to  nothing  but  the  pleas- 
ures the  rest  of  the  voyage  promised.  His  days 
were  spent  alone,  generally,  in  reading  under  the 
shade  of  the  awning  or  about  the  decks ;  but 
though  he  held  aloof  from  the  others,  it  was  not 
in  a  moody,  ill-conditioned  way,  or  as  if  his 
somewhat  strained  relations  with  Marsden  in- 
cluded them.  With  his  shyness  he  mingled  a 
certain  tact  that  made  this  quiet  avoidance  the 
apparent  outcome,  either  of  an  innate  diffidence 
or  of  an  absorption  in  studies,  which  relieved  it 
from  the  suspicion  of  discourtesy.  He  rarely 
began  any  conversation,  though  he  was  always 
attentively  courteous,  and  when,  by  any  chance, 
his  opinions  were  elicited,  he  was  found  to  enter- 
tain, if  not  hopeful  views  of  life,  at  least  such  as 
did  not  exclude  an  acknowledgment  that  they 
might  be  open  to  error. 

Between  him  and  the  Captain  an  intimacy 
developed  which  finally  made  his  sympathy  with 
the  latter's  aims  so  active  that  his  reading  ran 


A  DARK  NIGHT.  i5q 

entirely  in  the  grooves  of  spiritualistic  literature ; 
and  ivhen  Bentley  half  laughingly  avoided  further 
discussions  upon  the  subject,  he  intimated  plainly 
to  Lorrimore  that  the  encouragement  given 
by  him  to  Waite  was  unwise.  Marsden  showed 
but  little  interest  in  Lorrimore,  and,  at  times, 
made  him  the  target  for  his  rough  wit,  but  as  a 
compensation,  the  others  displayed  a  considera- 
tion which  he  appeared  to  recognize  with  grati- 
tude, though  it  did  not  alter  his  relations  with 
them.  Whether  it  was  that  he  understood  Bent- 
ley's  feelings  for  Isabel,  or  because  of  his  own 
reserve,  he  never  joined  them ;  indeed,  he  car- 
ried this  personal  isolation  so  far,  that,  if  by 
any  chance,  he  was  talking  to  Isabel  and  Bentley 
approached,  he  would  offer  an  excuse  for  retiring, 
and,  at  times,  so  clumsily,  that  his  good  inten- 
tions rendered  the  situation  embarrassing. 

Captain  Waite  was  indefatigable  in  his  efforts 
to  make  the  ship  happy  fore  and  aft,  and  more 
than  justified  Bentley's  high  praise.  In  every 
way  he  was  prudent,  skillful  and  systematic ;  at 
half-past  twelve  each  day  he  marked  upon  a 
small  track  chart  the  ship's  position,  and  when 
the  Halcyon's  run  was  particularly  good,  it  was 
celebrated  by  elaborate  luncheons,  which  were 
filled  with  surprises  of  sentimental  sea  cookery. 

The  Trade  Winds  blew  strong  and  steady,  and 


I/O 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


when  the  lowest  intended  limit  of  latitude,  24° 
north,  was  reached,  and  the  ship  was  pointed  due 
west,  the  captain,  with  lifted  cares,  sat  down  to 
his  labor  upon  the  great  work. 

The  days  and  nights  could  not  have  been  more 
beautiful.  Over  the  starboard  quarter  the  loyal 
breeze  sang  joyously  and  true;  the  sunlight  shone 
with  purity  from  an  unmarred  sky;  and,  encircling 
the  silvered  horizon,  cloud  masses  rose  tier  on 
tier  like  the  foundations  of  a  spirit  land,  and  held 
the  wavering  light  and  shadow  as  moon  rays 
come  and  go  in  canons  of  eternal  snow.  The 
stars  pulsated  in  a  wilderness  of  worlds,  the  seas 
revealed  translucent  deeps  of  blue,  and  in  un- 
broken undulations  the  foamless  waves  rolled 
silently  to  the  tropic  islands  which  gem  their 
western  bounds. 

The  happiness  aft  was  reflected  forward,  and 
no  hour  was  more  enjoyed  than  that  at  sunset, 
when  the  "  Doctor " — as  the  black  cook  was 
called — came  out  of  the  galley  with  his  battered 
fiddle,  and  played  for  the  men,  in  the  music  of 
the  early  century,  merry  jigs  and  square  dances, 
or  tender  accompaniments  to  the  negro  melodies, 
which  they  sang  with  lusty  pathos. 

But  the  little  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand,  soon  appeared. 

On  the  twentieth  day  from  Gibraltar,  the  chro- 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


171 


nometer  stopped.  Captain  Waite  had  wound  it 
carefully  before  he  went  on  deck  for  his  morning 
sight;  but,  in  the  afternoon  it  had  ceased  going, 
and,  upon  examination,  the  main-spring  was  found 
broken.  The  hands  showed  the  accident  must  have 
occurred  at  three  o'clock. 

Waite,  though  sorely  disturbed,  mentioned  this 
mishap  only  to  Bentley,  but  it  was  soon  apparent 
to  everybody  that  something  serious  had  hap- 
pened. The  Captain  lost  his  cheerfulness,  grew 
reserved  and  pre-occupied,  and,  at  times,  became 
despondent.  "  Not  that  it  makes  such  a  differ- 
ence," he  said  to  Bentley,  "  for  I  have  nearly  run 
my  longitude,  and  shall  haul  up  so  carefully  to 
the  north  that  I  anticipate  no  trouble.  But  it's 
the  manner  of  this  accident  which  worries  me." 

Waite's  original  intention  had  been  to  avoid 
the  squalls  and  fogs  north  of  Bermuda,  by  pass- 
ing to  the  southward  of  that  island,  and,  as  the 
ship  had  escaped,  so  far,  the  revolving  storms 
which  threatened  at  that  season  of  the  year,  he 
hoped  no  serious  disturbance  of  his  course  would 
prevent  him  preserving  the  original  plan.  Bent- 
ley was  not  so  much  alarmed  by  the  accident  to 
the  chronometer,  as  by  the  change  which  he  saw 
in  the  Captain,  and  this  feeling  received  a  double 
emphasis,  when,  one*  evening,  as  they  were  losing 
the  Trades,  Waite  remarked,  despairingly, — 


1/2 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"  Of  course,  you  will  laugh  at  my  superstition, 
Colonel  Bentley,  but  that  chronometer  was  stopped 
by  no  mortal  agency,  and  it  is  a  warning  of  some 
kind.  There  was  just  such  a  case  in  one  of  the 
East  India  Company's  ships  in  1832  or  33,  and 
though  the  Singapore  Castle  was  saved  by  a  mir- 
acle, the  captain  disappeared,  about  ten  minutes 
before  the  pilot  came  on  board,  off  the  mouth  of 
the  Hoogly.  Chronometers  stop,  and  are  broken, 
I  know,  and  without  apparent  reason,  but " — and 
here  he  lowered  his  voice — "  it's  a  strange  coinci- 
dence, that,  at  the  same  hour,  two  years  ago,  my 
poor  wife  died.  It's  a  mystery,  and,  if  anything 
should  happen,  I  want  you  to  remember  it  isn't  the 
first  warning  I  have  had  since  I  left  New  York  on 
this  voyage." 

"  I  respect  your  grief  and  doubts.  Captain 
Waite,"  answered  Bentley,  "  but  could  not  this — 
strange  as  the  coincidence  is — ^have  been  due  to 
some  mischance?  You  are  sure  you  did  not 
wind  it  too  tight,  or  that  some  one  may  have 
accidentally  jarred  it  ?  " 

"  Impossible !  I  am  always  careful,  and  be- 
sides, the  room  was  locked  all  day,  and  no 
one  entered  it,  except  the  steward,  whom  I 
sent  for  my  navigator  at  noon,  and  Lorrimore, 
some  time  after  luncheon,  to  get  the  second  vol- 
ume of  a  book  he  is  studying." 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


173 


On  the  hventy-third  day,  the  Halcyon  lost  the 
Trade  Winds.  For  forty-eight  hours  these  had 
been  decreasing  in  force,  and  hauling  to  the  south- 
ward, and,  with  the  light  breezes  which  succeeded, 
came  violent  rain  squalls,  accompanied  by  vivid 
lightning,  and  threatening  appearances  around 
the  horizon.  At  last,  even  the  cat's-paw,  that  had 
ruffled  so  tremulously  the  face  of  the  waters, 
disappeared,  and  for  four  wretched  days,  the 
Halcyon,  with  flapping  sails  and  creaking  spars, 
rolled  helplessly  and  unceasingly  upon  the  bosom 
of  a  sea  which  glared  like  a  shield  of  molten  lead. 

When,  at  the  end  of  this  second  day  of  calm, 
the  sunset  gave  no  hope  of  cooling  breeze,  Mars- 
den's  irritation,  which  had  increased  hour  by  hour, 
no  longer  repressed  its  expression.  With  a  quer- 
ulous insistency,  he  began  by  growling  at  the 
ship,  and,  as  no  one  contradicted  him,  he  blamed 
the  captain  for  allowing  the  Halcyon  to  be  lured 
into  a  "  No  Man's  Sea,"  where  the  invested  capi- 
tal, so  hardly  earned,  was,  owing  to  bad  naviga- 
tion, wasted  in  barren  idleness.  "  And  I  believe," 
he  grumbled  to  Bentley,  who  was  the  outlet  for 
these  complaints, "  it's  all  due  to  Waite's  damned, 
absurd  dabbling  with  spiritualism." 

But  even  sub-tropical  calms  have  an  end,  and 
on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-eighth  day,  the 
ship  rolled  and  drifted  into  the  region  of  variable 


174 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


winds.  Soon  after  sunrise,  a  wary  picket  of  blue 
appeared  in  the  distant  horizon ;  a  little  skirmish 
line  of  white  foam  crept,  crescentwise,  from  the 
eastward,  then  clouds,  like  the  smoke  of  artillery, 
and  the  waving  banners  of  a  host,  rose  in  the 
morning  air,  and,  finally,  with  a  rattle  and  roar, 
there  came  an  onslaught  of  the  wind,  which  made 
the  Halcyon  rush  before  it,  as  a  defeated  army 
flies. 

The  sense  of  movement,  of  accomplishment, 
gave  new  life  to  everybody,  and  where  a  moody 
silence  had  rested  as  a  pall,  and  the  acceptance 
of  a  misfortune  which  could  not  be  escaped  had 
deadened  hope,  cheery  voices  sang  to  the  breeze, 
and  prophecies  of  certain  victory  filled  the  ship. 
Yards  were  trimmed,  sails  hoisted  with  taut  leech, 
and  sheets  hauled  aft,  till  every  thread  of  canvas 
did  its  share  in  speeding  the  Halcyon  over  the 
sunlit,  foam-crowned  sea. 

Isabel,  listless,  and  weary  with  the  burden  of 
many  cares,  came  on  deck  during  the  forenoon 
watch,  and,  after  scanning  the  breezy  waters,  said 
to  Bentley,  when  he  joined  her, — 

"  What  a  blessing  it  is  to  feel  the  ship  moving 
once  more,  to  know  we  are  not  doomed  to  remain 
here  forever ! " 

"  Like  a  second  Flying  Dutchman  off  the 
Cape,"  answered  Bentley.     "  No,  that  is  over,  for 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


175 


the  calm  is  dead.  But,  frankly,  our  luck  has 
been  what  is  usually  found  in  these  waters, 
though  I  suppose  none  the  easier  to  bear  for 
that  reason.  Do  you  think  I  could  persuade 
your  father  to  come  on  deck  ?  " 

"  Not  now ;  though  he  is  better  already,  he 
would  not  leave  his  room,  and  sent  me  to  drink 
in,  as  he  said,  the  energy  and  freshness.  But  the 
calm  has  really  ended  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  the  worst  is  gone,  for  even  a  gale  is  not 
so  bad  as  a  calm.  One  may  burn  our  lives,  but 
the  other  reaches  the  same  end  by  rusting  them. 
What  is  better  now,  we  are  heading  well  to  the 
north'ard,  and  laying  our  course." 

For  the  past  week,  save  for  the  rough  naviga- 
tion required,  Captain  Waite  had  left  the  man- 
agement of  the  ship  to  Coffin,  and  accepting  the 
calm  as  inevitable,  seemed  to  take  an  interest 
only  in  his  book,  and  in  trying  to  decipher 
esoteric  triangles  and  squares,  which  Bentley, 
sadly  enough,  recognized  as  the  mystic  symbol- 
isms of  a  form  of  spiritual  research,  to  which 
Waite  could  not  bring  the  training  nor  opportu- 
nities even  of  the  veriest  neophyte.  When  the 
breeze  was  found,  the  Captain  simply  gave  the 
course  to  be  steered,  and,  to  avoid  further  inter- 
ruptions, entered  his  room  and  locked  its  door. 
Fortunately,  Coffin  assumed  a  wide  liberty  of 


1/6 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


interpretation  in  his  instructions,  and  before  noon 
the  Halcyon  was  reeling  under  the  breeze  with 
all  the  canvas  she  could  comfortably  carry. 

About  seven  bells,  Coffin  said  to  Bentley, 
"  'Pears  to  me,  Colonel,  she's  going  ,some,  laying 
her  course,  too,  with  a  little  to  spare,  and  knocking 
off  a  good  ten  knots,  or  I'm  a  howling  cow-boy." 
After  looking  around  the  horizon  with  half-closed 
eyes,  he  added,  "  She's  scoffing  latitude,  too,  and 
I  think  the  wind  is  sure  to  hold,  with  too  tight  a 
grip,  perhaps,  for  down  there  to  the  south 'ard  it 
looks  as  if  we  might  have  a  change  of  some 
kind.  It  will  bring  more  squalls,  anyhow,  for 
we're  just  about  inside  of  hurricane  latitudes,  I 
reckon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  these  are  hurricane  regions ;  we  are  where 
the  first  branch  begins  to  curve,  at  this  season — 
but  the  laws  of  cyclones  are  fairly  well-known, 
and  the  ship  is  staunch  enough — eh  ?  "  Bentley 
replied,  half  questioningly. 

"  The  Halcyon  is  as  staunch  as  wood  and  iron 
and  copper  and  good  locust  trunnels  can  make  a 
ship,  and  the  Captain,  he's  a  prime  hand  for  tack- 
ling cyclones — knows  all  their  dodges,  that  is," 
Coffin  continued,  lowering  his  voice  and  looking 
about  cautiously,  "  used  to  know,  and  does  now 
if  nothing  has  gone  wrong." 

Bentley,  who  understood  Coffin's  meaning,  took 


A  DARK  NIGHT.  lyy 

two  or  three  turns  on  the  deck,  and  asked  medi- 
tatively,— 

"  You  notice  a  great  change,  then  ?  " 

"  I've  sailed  with  him  off  and  on  for  twenty  years, 
deep-water  voyages  and  all,  and  learned  what  I 
know  from  him  ;  but  he's  not  the  same  man,  and 
hasn't  been  the  whole  voyage.  No,  sir'ree,  not  the 
same  John  H.  Waite,  who  was  the  best-found  and 
smartest  master-mariner  out  of  the  Port  of  New 
York.  He's  been  queer  on  this  point  of  spirit- 
ualism ever  since  his  wife  died,  two  years  gone 
this  month ;  but  he's  been  worse  this  whole 
voyage.  No  harm  meant,  Colonel,  but  couldn't 
you  freshen  the  nip  of  his  memory — he's  got 
responsibilities  and  here's  an  owner  on  board.  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  things,  sort  of  feel  it  in 
the  air  and  in  my  bones,  as  if  something  was 
brewing,  and  we  might  get  it,  before  night,  right 
butt-end  on  and  the  size  of  a  regular  ring-tailed 
snorter  of  a  blow." 

Bentley  promised  to  do  as  Coffin  wished,  and 
after  this  kept  as  close  a  watch  upon  the  naviga- 
tion as  he  could  without  exciting  comment. 

The  fears  of  the  mate  were  not  verified ;  as 
the  Halcyon,  except  for  a  rain  squall  or  two  in 
the  dog  watches,  ran  along  speedily  and  with 
good  weather  all  that  day  and  night.  The 
barometer  was  high,  the  wind  dry  and  bracing, 


i;8 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


and  the  atmosphere  very  transparent.  By  noon  of 
the  next  day  she  had  logged  one  hundred  and 
eighty-six  knots,  and  the  captain's  reckoning  put 
her  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  miles  E.  S.  E. 
of  Hatteras. 

Between  two  or  three  o'clock  Bentley  noticed 
a  sudden  fall  in  the  barometer,  and  soon  after- 
ward there  were  unmistakable  evidences  of  a 
change  ;  the  upper  regions  of  the  sky  grew  dark, 
the  soft  cirrus  clouds  gave  place  to  a  veil  of  white 
and  feathery  mist,  which  spun  in  a  ghostly 
aureole,  the  air  became  humid,  and  the  heat 
oppressive.  Before  two  bells  in  the  first  dog 
watch  great  plumes  of  gray  and  white  waved 
above  the  sea,  and  to  the  northward  and  eastward 
a  nimbus  cloud  brooded.  The  threatening  ap- 
pearance of  this  storm-bank  was  indescribable, 
for  it  seemed  as  if,  in  its  slowly  developing  but 
irresistible  path,  it  would  enfold  everything  with 
nameless  horrors ;  its  upper  part  was  formed  of 
rounded  and  cone-shaped  clouds,  from  which 
scud  and  squall  whirled  angrily  in  all  directions, 
and  its  base,  black  as  the  Arctic  night,  was  hid- 
den with  suggested  terrors  below  the  horizon. 
Presently  it  began  to  rise  until  it  reached  the 
zenith,  and  then  with  a  downfall  of  rain,  as  if  the 
flood  gates  were  loosed,  it  dominated  the  heavens. 
The  water  was  a  sickly  green,  the  sun  set  in  a 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


179 


band  of  coppery  sky,  and  as  the  twilight  was 
blotted  out  by  the  angry  cloud,  the  gale  whistled 
mournfully,  rain  squalls  tore  to  the  right  and  left, 
and  the  sea,  broken  by  opposing  wave  crests, 
swept  turbulently  to  the  gloomy  south. 

No  one  slept  that  night. 

At  two  in  the  morning  the  wind  was  blowing  a 
gale  from  the  southeast,  and  when  the  gray  dawn 
faintly  lighted  the  tossing  sea,  the  wind  shifted 
in  heavy  squalls  to  the  eastward.  As  Bentley 
entered  the  cabin  to  get  his  coffee,  he  met  the 
Captain  looking  wild-eyed  and  dishevelled,  for 
he  had  passed  the  night  on  deck  or  in  the 
cabin,  pouring  over  his  mystic  books.  He 
addressed  Bentley  abruptly,  though  his  tone 
was  composed.  "  From  my  reckoning.  Colonel, 
and  from  what  I  have  learned  in  other  ways," 
— he  added  this  hesitatingly, — "  I  put  the  ship 
about  here."  He  pointed  out  a  place  on  the 
chart  over  one  hundred  miles  to  the  eastward 
of  Hatteras,  and  continued,  "  I  have  worked 
back,  and,  as  you  know,  the  log-lines  and  glasses 
have  been  verified ;  we  have  been  careful  about 
her  logging,  and  so  I  am  reasonably  certain  of 
the  position  ;  but,  would  you  mind  running  over 
my  calculations  ?  " 

Bentley  took  the  log-slate,  and  working  up, 
independently,  the  dead  reckoning  from  the  noon 


l8o  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

of  the  day  before,  arrived  substantially  at  the 
same  result  as  the  captain. 

"  Well,"  said  Waite,  with  renewed  confidence, 
when  Bentley  gave  his  result,  "  that  being  the 
case,  we  ought,  by  noon,  to  be  about  here,"  and, 
measuring  off  the  distance  with  the  dividers,  and 
shaping  a  course  with  the  parallel  rulers,  he 
pricked  upon  the  chart  the  assumed  place  of  the 
ship.  "  That,  you  see,  gives  us  plenty  of  sea- 
room.  To  me,  this  blow  looks  like  the  begin- 
ning of  a  cyclone,  and,  if  it  is,  I  shall  try  and 
take  advantage  of  it ;  of  course,  I  cannot  tell 
exactly  in  what  direction  it  is  moving,  but,  from 
the  shifting  of  the  wind  to  the  left,  I  th/nk  we 
are  in  the  manageable  semi-circle,  and  out  of  its 
direct  path." 

There  was  no  doubt  in  Bentley's  mind  that 
Captain  Waite  had  determined  correctly  the 
character  of  the  storm,  and,  so  far  as  could  be 
expected,  his  position  in  it ;  so  he  replied,  cheer- 
fully,- 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  right,  and  we  have  both 
seen  too  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  to  fear  any 
danger." 

"  I  am  glad  you  agree  with  me,"  answered 
Waite,  "  for  I  have  been  studying  this  threaten- 
ing storm  as  carefully  as  I  can,  on  insufficient  data. 
But  all  cyclones  are  dangerous,  and  this  may  be 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


I8I 


what  I  was  warned  of  at  Genoa ;  the  danger  I 
was  to  look  out  for  on  the  voyage  home," 

"  But,  and  pardon  me,  Captain,  for  asking  you, 
are  you  sure  that  the  assumed  longitude  is 
right  ?  "  asked  Bentley.  "  You  know  dead  reck- 
oning is  not  always  reliable." 

"  Doubly  sure ;  so  sure,  that  I  would  stake 
my  life  on  it,"  he  answered,  sternly. 

"And  you  would  not  stand  off  shore  a  little 
longer,  until  you  could  get  some  observations  ?  " 

"  No,  for  I  know  Mr.  Marsden  is  already  dis- 
satisfied with  the  length  of  the  voyage.  There 
is  not  a  chance  that  we  have  overrun  our  log- 
ging— this  I  know,  and  in  more  ways  than  one. 
Besides,  if  this  is  a  cyclone,  we  might  run  into 
its  centre." 

When  Bentley  reached  the  deck,  he  found  both 
the  mates  on  watch.  Coffin  was  standing  by  the 
weather-rail,  carefully  conning  the  ship,  and 
Niles  was  stretching  life-lines  along  the  main 
deck,  for  the  sea  was  heavy,  and  the  ship  was 
pitching  and  rolling  viciously.  The  sky  was  a 
dirty  gray  and  washed-out  black,  save  where  the 
whitish  arc,  which  had  formed  in  the  east,  was 
warmed  into  a  mass  of  lurid  red  vapor. 

Bentley  called  Coffin  to  leeward  of  the  mast, 
and  said,  in  as  low  tones  as  the  howling  of  the 
gale  permitted, — 


1 82  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

"  The  Captain  is  better,  and  I  think  the  time 
for  decisive  measures  has  not  arrived ;  but,  be 
ready  at  any  moment,  and,  in  the  meantime,  if 
there  is  a  crisis,  Marsden  will  put  the  manage- 
ment of  the  ship  in  your  hands." 

Coffin,  who  had  not  taken  his  eyes  off  the  tug- 
ging and  straining  topsails  and  trysail,  nodded 
his  head  in  approval,  and  walked  to  windward. 
About  noon,  the  weather  was  so  much  worse, 
that  he  sent  for  Bentley,  and  said, — 

"There  is  no  use  in  going  on  any  longer 
this  way,  Colonel ;  I  know  as  well  as  you  we're 
not  sure  of  our  position,  and  ought  to  be  laid-to, 
with  our  head  off  shore  instead  of  trying  to  run 
north ;  or,  for  a  while,  to  take  the  wind  on  the 
starboard  quarter,  and  get  clear  of  the  storm 
circle.  I  have  suggested  this  to  the  Captain,  but 
he  says  it's  not  time  for  either  plan  yet,  and  what's 
worse,  he  declares  he  is  waiting  for  the  proper 
permission.  The  truth  is,  he  is  not  right,  and, 
though  it  looks  like  mutiny,  if  Mr.  Marsden 
gives  the  word,  I  will  take  charge,  under  his 
orders." 

Bentley  knew  how  strong  must  be  the  impulse 
which  lead  an  honest  man  and  a  true  sailor,  like 
Coffin,  to  prescribe  such  a  desperate  remedy ; 
but  he  felt  that  the  mate  was  only  doing  his 
duty.     Before  he  could  frame  an  answer,  Waite 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


X83 


came  on  deck,  and  ordered  all  hands  to  be 
called. 

At  this  time,  the  ship  was  heading  about  North, 
on  the  starboard  tack,  the  gale  blowing  between 
East  and  E.  N.  E.  As  soon  as  the  people 
were  at  their  stations,  the  Captain  waited  for  a 
smooth  time,  and,  putting  his  helm  up,  wore  ship 
to  the  westward,  and  brought  the  Halcyon  on  the 
port  tack,  with  her  head  about  S.  by  E.  The  evo- 
lution was  performed  in  a  thoroughly  seamanlike 
manner,  and,  though  the  wallowing  of  the  ship, 
when  she  fell  off  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,  was 
so  great  as  to  bring  Marsden  and  Lorrimore  into 
the  cabin,  with  nervous  premonitions  of  danger, 
still  the  smiling  face  and  cheery  words  of  Bent- 
ley,  reassured  them. 

Sail  was  gradually  reduced,  and,  as  the 
Halcyon  was  laid-to,  her  splendid  qualities  were 
manifested,  in  the  ease  with  which  she  met  the 
seas  that,  before,  had  made  her  stagger  and  reel 
like  a  drunkard.  At  four  o'clock,  the  wind  was 
blowing  a  violent  gale  from  E.  N.  E.,  and  by 
sundown  this  had  become  so  heavy,  that  all  the 
square  sails  were  furled,  and  the  ship  was  lying- 
to  under  her  storm  main  trysail  only.  At  eight 
o'clock,  she  was  struggling  desperately  in  the  full 
fury  of  a  hurricane,  which  rushed  madly  from 
N.  E.,  and  so  mercilessly  did  this  rage,  that  her 


1 84 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


starboard  beams  were  under  water,  and,  with  a 
fast  drift  to  leeward,  she  was  wreathed  by  spray- 
that  dashed  in  white  sheets  over  the  bow  and  broke 
aft  in  bHnding  torrents. 

About  nine  o'clock,  the  gale  lulled  for  an  inter- 
val, and  there  followed  a  few  moments  of  sudden 
calm,  so  disquieting  in  the  horrors  it  seemed  to 
foretell,  that,  even  the  previous  roaring  of  the 
cyclone  was  less  terrible.  The  ship  rolled  vio- 
lently in  a  confused  sea,  which  boiled  around 
her;  the  tops  of  the  waves  were  sheared  by 
an  irresistible  force,  and  engulfing  them  arose 
the  walls  of  black  clouds,  and  the  skies  that  ap- 
peared to  rest  upon  the  mastheads.  Then,  with 
a  roar,  like  the  shooting  of  a  thousand  thun- 
derbolts in  a  clear  sky,  the  gale,  without  the 
slightest  warning,  shifted  to  the  northward  and 
westward. 

As  the  Halcyon  slowly  staggered  upright,  to 
face  this  new  onslaught,  a  heavy  sea  boarded  her 
over  the  weather-bow.  With  cracking  timbers  and 
ripping  bolts,  the  forward  bulwarks  were  battered 
into  fragments,  the  galley  was  gutted  and  unroofed, 
the  forecastle  stove-in,  and  a  life-boat  swept  to 
leeward.  The  spare  spars  and  water-casks  were 
torn  from  their  lashings,  and  started  aft  with  such 
fury,  that  several  of  the  crew,  caught  in  the 
wreckage,  were  seriously  injured,  among  thettv 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


185 


— and  so  badly,  that  he  died  in  an  hour — the 
kindly-hearted  negro  cook.  The  Halcyon  shiv- 
ered and  reeled  under  the  blow,  and,  when  it 
seemed  she  would  never  right  again,  rose  slowly 
on  the  following  wave,  and  painfully  freed  her- 
self from  the  tons  of  flooding  water. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  the  immediate  danger  was 
past,  Bentley  rushed  to  the  cabin,  and  found  that 
little  damage  had  been  done,  though  the  water 
was  slashing  from  port  to  starboard,  and  forcing 
its  way,  in  a  slow  stream,  through  the  lee  scup- 
pers near  the  pantry. 

Marsden  called  Bentley  into  his  room,  and 
muttered,  hoarsely, — 

"  What  do  you  think  of  all  this  ?  I  mean  the 
weather,  and  our  chances  ?  " 

With  the  usual  caution  of  sailors  in  speaking 
to  landsmen,  Bentley  replied, — 

"  It  is  a  very  heavy  gale,  but  not  dangerous ; 
that  sudden  shift  was,  I  think,  its  culmination." 

"  Where  do  you  make  the  ship  to  be  ?  " 

"  By  the  captain's  last  reckoning,  we  were  one 
hundred  miles  from  Hatteras;  since  then,  we 
have  drifted  to  the  southward,  and  off  shore." 

"  Tell  me  frankly,  Bentley  :  is  this  a  cyclone  ?  " 

"  I  think  a  cyclone  has  passed  us,  though  at  no 
time  have  we  been  out  of  the  manageable  semi- 
circle, as  it  is  called." 


1 86  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

Marsden  seemed  better  satisfied,  and  asked 
Bentley  to  let  him  know  before  midnight  the 
exact  state  of  affairs.  By  eleven  o'clock,  the 
wind  had  hauled  around  the  compass,  and  was 
blowing  heavily,  but  steadily,  from  the  East,  and 
there  was  a  continued  rise  of  the  barometer,  suc- 
ceeding the  slight  change  that  had  preceded  the 
cyclone's  fiercest  attack  two  hours  before. 

Waite,  who  kept  the  deck,  was  nervously 
walking  between  the  mast  and  the  weather-taff- 
rail,  as  more  sail  was  set,  and,  finally,  said, — 

"  Mr.  Coffin,  call  all  hands ;  we  must  lose  no 
more  time.     I  am  going  to  wear  ship." 

The  Halcyon  was  put  about,  and,  having  been 
brought  well  up  to  the  wind,  on  the  starboard 
tack,  with  her  head  North,  sail  was  gradually  made 
to  fore  and  main  lower  topsails,  double-reefed  fore- 
sail, forestorm  staysail,  and  main  trysail.  Coffin 
and  Bentley  did  not  approve  of  this  change,  but, 
at  the  worst,  it  was  only  a  difference  of  judgment, 
in  which  the  captain  might  be  right, 

Bentley  went  to  the  cabin  soon  afterward,  and 
was  followed  by  Waite,  who  sank  wearily  in  a 
lashed  chair,  and  said, — 

"  It  has  been  a  hard  blow,  but  I  think  we  have 
weathered  it.  I  shall  run  on  this  course  till  day- 
light, for  we  have  plenty  of  room,  and  are  well 
clear  of  the  Gulf  Stream ;  then,  if  the  storm  has 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


187 


not  broken,  I  shall  put  her  head  off  shore,  until 
I  can  get  a  decent  obser\^ation." 

Lorrimore,  who  had  not  left  his  room  since 
eight  o'clock,  slided  along  the  wet  cabin  floor, 
and  asked, — 

"  Shall  I  be  in  the  way  on  deck ;  it  seems 
haunted  down  here." 

"  Haunted  ?  "  the  captain  cried,  "  haunted,  yes, 
but  not  as  up  there.  Go,  if  you  will,  though 
you  are  better  below,  where  the  lamp  is." 

When  Lorrimore  had  taken  his  pallid  face  and 
burning  eyes  into  the  night,  Waite  said  to 
Bentley, — 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  have  not  shown  a 
proper  knowledge  of  these  storms,  and  that  I 
should  have  run  off  with  the  wind  on  my  star- 
board quarter,  until  I  could  work  around,  or  get 
into  smooth  water.  But  I  was  afraid  of  being 
squeezed  between  the  cyclone's  track  and  the 
coast,  or  shoved  into  the  Gulf  Stream,  which 
would  have  confused  my  reckoning,  and  so  I 
have  done  as  my  judgment  told  me  was  best." 

As  he  rose,  and  went  toward  the  cabin  door, 
he  said,  brokenly,  in  a  voice  filled  with  a  misery 
and  sadness  which  haunted  Bentley  for  days, — 

"  It  has  been  a  hard  gale  and  a  dreary  burden 
in  every  way,  for  at  times  my  reason  has  strug- 
gled against  my  warnings.     But  I  am  only  the 


1 88  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

creature  of  fate,  an  instrument  for  some  purpose, 
a  punishment  for  some  sin.  Why  ?  Who  can 
say?  Thank  God,  the  morning  will  make  all 
things  plain." 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  he  came  to  Bentley, 
and  grasped  his  hand. 

*'  If  I  could  only  tell  you  what  I  have  suffered 
in  these  last  days,  you  would  pity  me.  There  is 
a  higher  power  than  man's  in  all  this,  and,  be- 
lieving as  I  do,  I  have  tried  only  to  perform  my 
whole  duty." 

He  groped  his  way  by  table  and  bulkhead  to 
the  door,  and  then  passed  quickly,  as  the  shadow 
of  a  blown-out  light  goes,  into  the  gloom  of  the 
gale  and  night. 

Bentley  entered  Marsden's  room  and  found 
him  staring  with  sleepless  eyes  into  the  darkness. 
At  his  request  Bentley  lighted  the  night-lantern, 
and,  omitting  the  hallucinations  of  Waite,  told  all 
that  had  occurred.  The  invalid  listened  intently, 
and  said, — 

"  I  am  glad  it  appears  more  promising.  I  own, 
Bentley,  I  am  nervous  to-night,  and  must  ask 
you  not  to  leave  me  just  yet,  as  I  have  something 
to  say." 

Marsden  looked  pale  and  old.  The  corners 
of  his  mouth  were  drawn  with  a  suggestion  of 
repressed  pain,  his  nose  was  pinched,  his  un- 


A  DARK  NIGHT.  i  go 

shaven  face  had  a  two  days'  stubby  growth  of 
fluffy  gray  hair,  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  were 
dilated,  and  his  hands  and  the  muscles  of  his  face 
twitched  nervously ;  when  he  was  not  gesticulat- 
ing, as  was  his  habit,  he  held  the  ring  finger  of 
the  left  hand  tightly  clasped  in  his  right. 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  few  moments,  and  when 
he  began,  it  was  in  a  low,  hoarse  rumble  of  throaty 
words. 

"  Bentley,  if  anything  should  happen, — not  only 
now,  but  at  any  time, — you  will  look  out  for  my 
daughter,  will  you  not  ?  I  mean,  at  all  sacrifices. 
I  have  been  thinking  seriously  of  many  things, 
and,  if  not  too  late,  I  want  to  make  such  restitu- 
tion as  is  left  to  me.  This  is  not,"  he  cried,  with 
the  old  defiance  of  creed  and  dogma  other  than 
the  belief  in  himself  and  the  rule  of  life  which 
centralized  him  as  the  only  certain  fact  in  the 
universe, — "  this  is  not,  from  any  fear  of  what  may 
happen, — for  as  I  have  lived  a  heathen  I  shall  die 
one, — but  because  I  realize  there  are  debts  which 
I  owe,  as  I  would  owe  for  a  dinner  I  had  eaten. 
One  of  these  expiations  is  my  treatment  of  you." 

Bentley  tried  to  calm  him  with  words  of  grate- 
ful acknowledgment,  of  considerate  kindness,  but 
the  stricken  old  man,  eager  with  the  desire  of 
doing  at  last  something  which  did  not  include 
himself  in  its  rewards,  went  on  with  easy  words, — 


190 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"  If  it  is  any  consolation  to  you,  as  it  is  cer- 
tainly a  relief  to  me,  let  my  say,  that  I  was  pur- 
blind in  the  foolishness  of  my  vain  interference, 
— but  now  you  are  free  to  win  Isabel  when  you 
will." 

Marsden  lifted  himself  painfully  from  his  pillow, 
and  taking  down  a  small  tin  box  from  the  shelf 
above  the  locker,  handed  it  to  Bentley,  and  said, — 

"  But  there  is  a  greater  expiation  due  than  yours. 
I  can  not  sketch  to-night  even  the  rude  outlines 
of  the  story,  but  you  will  find  it  among  other 
papers  in  this  box.  This  restitution  has  to  do 
with  one  chapter  in  my  life,  which,  in  your  new 
relations,  you  have  the  right  to  know." 

He  spoke  slowly,  and  turned  his  face  with  a 
shudder  from  the  air-port,  where  the  water  dashed, 
as  the  Halcyon  sank  in  the  hollows  of  the  wave. 

"  Years  ago,  and  in  California,  I  was  married. 
I  was  only  a  boy  at  the  time,  and  unfitted,  by  the 
life  I  had  led,  for  any  such  responsibility.  The 
marriage  was  a  foolish,  mad  impulse,  but,  in  the 
end,  a  sad  one  for  the  woman  who  had  trusted 
me.  After  a  year  or  more  I  deserted  my  wife,  at 
a  season  when  even  the  brutes  are  kind,  crazy 
with  the  hunger  for  wealth  and  unreasoning  in  a 
resentment — of  which  Heaven  knows  she  made 
no  part — against  a  life  that  was  throttling  me. 
There  was  a  daughter  born,  and  I  feel  it  was 


A  DARK  AUGHT.  igj 

the  last  blow  to  the  misery  I  had  made,  that  my 
wife  died  without  seeing  me  hold  the  little  child 
whom  she  had  prayed  would  wed  our  lives  in  the 
love  which  neither  priest  nor  pity  had  saved. 

"  Carmenita,  my  wife,  died  as  she  had  lived,  a 
good,  true,  woman,  who  deserved  a  better  fate, 
and  with  her  last  prayers  for  me  and  for  her 
baby. 

"  Those  prayers  have  been  my  Nemesis.  When 
I  awoke  to  a  realization  of  my  cowardice,  I 
searched  everywhere,  but  never  could  find  this 
child,  for  her  grandfather  had  sworn  this  should 
be  my  punishment  when  youth  and  folly  were 
gone;  and  that  curse,  hissed  at  me  from  a  hopeless 
death-bed,  has  followed  and  struck  often,  but 
never  so  cruelly  as  to-night.  I  ask  your  aid  to 
make  this  expiation,  for  I  am  old  and  sick.  Will 
you  help  me  to  undo  the  wrong  ?  " 

Bentley  said,  slowly, — 

"  As  I  love  Isabel,  I  will  try  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery of  her  sister's  life  and  death." 

"  Should  she  be  alive,"  Marsden  muttered, 
brokenly,  "  tell  her  of  this  repentance,  and  bring 
her  to  the  home  and  love  she  has,  doubtlessly, 
never  known.  If  she  be  dead,  bury  her  by  the 
side  of  the  mother  who  died  for  her — and  me. 
I  owe  something  to  Catlin;  let  his  body  be 
brought  home,  for  however  wrong  he  may  have 


192 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


been,  he  was  sick  and  poor  and  human,  and  I  did 
not  do  my  duty  by  him.  At  least,  I  might  have 
saved  him  from  hunger  and  the  prison  walls.  And 
for  the  other — that  wretched  woman  who  came  into 
our  lives  for  no  harm  we  had  done,  for  no  reason 
that  will  ever  be  revealed — let  her  memory  be  for- 
gotten and  forgiven  :  it  will  be  a  charity." 

Marsden  sank  wearily  in  the  narrow  berth,  and, 
after  muttering  a  half-framed  sentence,  begged 
Bentley  to  bring  him  a  glass  of  water.  As  he 
crossed  the  dreary  cabin,  the  Colonel  saw,  under 
the  swaying,  smoking  lamp,  the  sleeping  figure  of 
Lorrimore.  His  pose  was  one  of  utter  prostra- 
tion, but,  as  the  pallid  face,  resting  upon  the  out- 
stretched arms,  was  turned  from  the  vibrating 
circle  of  yellow  light,  it  bore  a  look  of  tender- 
ness which  Bentley  had  never  seen  before. 
Going  first  to  Lorrimore's  room,  he  took  a 
blanket,  and  wrapped  it  gently  about  the  tired 
sleeper. 

Marsden  sipped  the  draught  Bentley  had 
mixed  with  whiskey,  and,  when  his  mind  re- 
acted under  the  stimulant,  raised  himself  in  the 
bed,  and  continued — 

"  Tell  me,  Bentley,  what  did  you  ever  learn  of 
her  history — of  Marion  Darlington  ?  " 

He  spoke  the  name  with  an  effort,  for  so  com- 
pletely had  he  tried  to  .put  her  out  of  his  life, 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


193 


since  the  night  in  Paris  when  he  shrank  beneath 
the  hatred  of  her  dying  message,  that,  at  his  re- 
quest, Bentley  never  mentioned  her. 

"  Catlin's  sister,"  said  Bentley,  "  wrote  me  all 
she  knew,  or  could  discover,  and  it  was  sad 
enough.     I  will  show  you  the  letter  to-morrow," 

"  No,  no  !  "  Marsden  cried,  "  tell  me  about  her 
to-night,  and  we  will  try,  hereafter,  to  forget  her." 

"  Much  of  her  story,"  responded  Bentley, 
*'  was  true.  She  loved  Catlin,  as  only  these  grave, 
quiet  women,  can  love,  and,  for  a  time,  they  were 
engaged  to  be  married.  But  all  this,  by  slow 
degrees,  ended  when  he  met  Isabel.  With  this 
change,  her  nature  seemed  to  alter,  and,  after  a 
season  of  dreadful  illness,  she  came  back  to  a  life 
which  had  only  one  purpose — to  win  the  love 
she  had  lost.  Little  of  her  early  history  is 
known.  She  had  a  modest  income,  which  was 
paid  monthly  by  a  Catholic  banker  in  New  York, 
until  she  came  of  age,  when  the  principal  was 
given  her.  It  was,  he  said,  a  trust  left  by  one 
whose  name  could  not  be  revealed.  Her  life 
must  have  been  a  sad  one,  for  her  earliest  remem- 
brances, as  she  told  Miss  Catlin,  were  of  strangers, 
and  of  harsh,  unhomelike,  religious  schools;  and 
she  had  hungered  for  a  kind  word — for  some  one 
to  love  her — but  none  of  these  ever  came  until 
she  met  Philip." 
13 


194 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"  Poor  girl,  poor  girl ! "  exclaimed  Marsden ; 
"perhaps,  after  all,  we  have  misjudged  her." 

"  When  I  sent  the  news  of  her  sad  death,  Cat- 
lin's  sister  sought  the  banker,  and  asked  his  advice 
as  to  her  burial.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  was 
learned  that  her  name  was  not  Marion  Darling- 
ton, but  Maria  del  Gado." 

What  terror  had  stricken  the  night?  What 
echo  of  perils  passed  was  here?  What  judg- 
ments were  to  come  ?  What  was  the  sudden 
agony  which  pierced  this  stricken  cynic  with 
spears,  and  filled  his  mouth  with  the  mist  of 
wine  and  hyssop, 

"  Maria  del  Gado  !  "  he  gasped.  "  Merciful 
God  !  and  her  grandfather  ?  " 

"  Was  Felipe  del  Gado,  of  Casa  Blanca." 

"  My  God,  my  God,  whom  I  have  denied,  pity 
me !  Oh,  Bentley,  Bentley  !  the  child  I  left  with 
strangers,  the  woman  who  died  alone,  whom  I 
killed — she — she  was  the  daughter  I  never  knew 
— she  was  Isabel's  sister." 

Bentley  put  his  arm  about  the  fainting  form, 
and  slowly  lowered  it  to  the  narrow  bed.  Into 
the  worn  face  an  ashen  pallor  was  creeping,  and 
in  the  wearied  eyes  was  burning  dim  the  light 
of  the  tired  soul,  which  had  striven  so  long 
between  the  sins  of  this  incarnation,  and  the 
ambitions  of  the  spirit,  waiting  now  so  eagerly 


A  DARK  NIGHT.  1 05 

for  its  cBons  of  rest,  and  for  the  judgment  of 
God. 

With  one  last  effort,  life  seemed  to  come  full- 
flooded  to  the  dying  penitent,  but  it  was  the  use- 
less flutterings  of  a  netted  bird  in  the  grasp  of 
the  fowler.  Pressing  a  hand  to  his  raging 
heart,  he  shrieked, — 

"  Help  me !  help  me !  for  God's  sake !  My 
daughter,  my  Isabel !  " 

Bentley  rushed  to  the  opposite  room.  A  quick 
knock  aroused  Isabel,  and  she  answered  with  a 
tenderness  born  of  the  dreamland,  wherein  they  had 
been  walking  happily  hand-in-hand  together.  But, 
before  he  could  utter  a  word,  a  cry  of  awful  mis- 
ery mingled  with  the  roaring  of  the  gale,  and 
awoke,  with  sudden  start,  the  sleeping  Lorri- 
more.  Guided  by  the  moans  which  followed 
this  supplication  for  help,  he  entered  Marsden's 
room,  just  as  Isabel  sprang  into  the  cabin,  and, 
with  the  life-blood  choking  her  heart,  turned 
affrightedly  to  Bentley. 

"  Your  father — come !  "  It  was  '  all  that  he 
dared  to  say. 

When  they  entered,  all  was  still,  and,  by  the 
dimly-lit  and  spectral  bed,  Lorrimore,  with  out- 
stretched hand,  bade  them  stand ;  and  then,  point- 
ing to  the  eyes,  which  were  staring  sightlessly 
into  the  gloom,  he  whispered, — 


iq6  a  desperate  chance. 

"  It  is  too  late — too  late !     He  is  dead ! " 


So  Henry  Marsden  died,  and,  as  the  doctors 
had  feared,  by  the  shock  which  the  culmination 
of  all  these  miseries  gave.  The  Sybarite  found 
the  treasure  which  the  Stoic  said  not  all  the  world 
could  rob  him  of — the  treasure  of  death — here 
where  life  itself  was  a  tragedy  and  earth  was 
denied  him. 

Oh,  vain  purpose,  vain  prayer,  of  this  mis- 
spent life !  Not  upon  the  daughter  he  loved 
so  well  did  his  dying  eyes  look,  nor  was  the 
touch  of  her  hand  upon  his  paling  cheek, 
when  the  end  came;  not  with  his  prayer's  ful- 
fillment, nor  with  his  sin's  expiation  ;  for,  as  the 
peace  of  the  passing  away  stole  into  his  soul, 
as  sleep  after  labor,  his  clouded  vision  saw  only 
the  face  of  a  stranger. 

He  died  at  midnight,  and  the  answer  to  his 
cry  was  the  muffled  echo  of  the  Halcyon's  bell, 
ushering  in  the  grief-stricken  day  and  ringing, 
storm-smitten,  above  the  requiem  of  the  gale. 

But  with  the  chime  of  the  bell,  the  roaring 
of  the  blast  seemed  stilled,  and,  then,  a  shock, 
unheard,  unknown  before,  thrilled  the  Halcyon 
from  stem  to  stern,  from  truck  to  keelson ;  and, 
above  the  flapping  of  splitting  sails,  the  battering 


A  DARK  NIGHT. 


197 


of  falling  spars,  and  the  rending  of  broken  bul- 
warks, above  the  challenge  of  sea  and  gale,  and 
the  anguished  cries  of  men,  there  was  borne  on 
the  wings  of  night  another  message  of  death. 

For  the  Halcyon's  days  were  done,  and,  with 
bursting  seams  and  riven  timbers,  she  settled 
slowly  into  a  grave  of  sand,  and  opened,  as  if 
pleading  for  pity,  her  gaping  wounds  to  the  seas, 
which  wrecked  her  on  the  treacherous  shores  of 
home. 


CHAPTER  X. 


STOUT   HEARTS. 


THE  Halcyon  had  sailed  her  last  voyage.  The 
waves  which  had  enfolded  her  keel,  the 
breezes  which  had  wooed  her  sails,  the  skies 
which  had  piloted  her  by  day  and  night — all  had 
conspired  to  kill  her  in  the  end. 

After  the  first  cry  of  the  watch,  all  other  sounds 
were  lost  in  the  gale  which  had  hunted  so  hard 
and  run  down  so  surely  this  harmless  quarry ; 
but  now  there  burst  upon  the  night  the  roar  of 
breakers  which  scaled  the  crumbling  bulwarks, 
and  rushed  aft  with  lips  of  foam  to  riot  insanely 
in  the  harvest  death  had  planted  for  their  reaping. 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  her  sorrow,  Isabel 
failed  to  realize  the  meaning  of  this  new  disaster, 
or  welcomed  it  as  a  solution  for  the  future  which 
was  so  hopeless.  Lorrimore  dashed  wildly  into 
the  cabin,  and  then  on  deck,  while  Bentley  took 
from  the  rack  a  life  preserver  and  secured  it  about 
the  moaning  woman,  who  knelt  by  the  bedside 
of  her  father. 
198 


STOUT  HEARTS. 


199 


Closing  the  sightless  eyes  and  covering  the 
body  with  a  sheet,  he  whispered  a  word  of  hope  to 
Isabel,  and  then  made  his  way  to  the  deck  above. 

It  was  a  scene  of  misery  and  ruin. 

The  firm  settling  of  the  hull,  the  resistance  it 
offered  to  the  onslaught  of  the  sea,  and  the  strength 
and  persistency  of  the  breakers,  told  his  trained 
eyes  that  the  Halcyon  was  doomed.  She  was  im- 
bedded in  the  shallows  for  her  whole  length,  and, 
as  she  lay  slightly  heeled  to  port,  with  the 
starboard  broadside  opposed  at  a  small  angle  to 
the  wind,  the  waves  poured  in  torrents  over  the 
bows,  rending  bulwarks  and  houses  and  driving 
aft  and  to  leeward  a  mass  of  dangerous  wreck- 
age. The  light  spars,  carried  away  by  the  first 
shock  of  the  grounding,  hung  up  and  down  the 
topmast  and  lower  rigging,  or  trailed  alongside 
in  a  tangle  of  gear,  which  let  them  surge  upon 
each  wave  to  act  as  battering  rams  against  the 
frames  amidships. 

Bentley  climbed  the  starboard  mizzen  rigging, 
and  peered  into  the  darkness  for  a  signal  of  hope 
or  rescue,  but  in  vain ;  and  though  he  waited 
until  their  last  rocket  blazed  over  the  water,  it 
illumined  an  arc  where  only  the  rolling  waves,  the 
whirling  foam-crests,  and  the  pools  of  floating 
spars  and  top-hamper,  shared  the  hopelessness  of 
the  situation. 


200  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

At  first  th2  blows  of  the  breakers  had  not  been 
unlike  the  buffetings  of  the  sea  when  the  Halcyon 
was  battling  with  the  gale  in  the  open,  but  now 
each  assault  made  the  vessel  tremble  in  every 
timber,  and  forced  from  their  fastenings  knee  and 
frame,  beam  and  futtock,  plank  and  bracing. 
Fortunately  the  Halcyon  was  strongly  built  with 
seasoned  wood  and  honest  men's  honest  iron 
work,  so  at  the  worst  she  might  be  expected  to 
hold  together  for  a  few  hours  more. 

Bentley  looked  for  the  crew,  but  it  was  not 
until  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  blackness 
of  the  night  that  he  saw  under  the  weather  rail  a 
little  group  of  silent  men.  In  this  were  the  mates, 
and,  as  Bentley's  figure  showed  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  rigging.  Coffin  carefully  worked 
his  way  aft.  When  he  reached  the  shrouds,  the 
mate  said,  with  his  usual  composure, — 

"  Oh,  that's  you,  is  it.  Colonel  ?  How  are  you  ? 
Glad  to  see  you.  Well,  it's  pretty  much  what  I 
feared,  and  a  bad  business,  too,  yes,  sir'ree — a  bad 
business  for  all  hands." 

"  Where  is  the  captain  ?  "  asked  Bentley. 

"We  don't  know.  I've  been  ever>'where  I 
dared  to  go,  but  can't  find  him ;  and  the  chance  is 
the  old  man  has  gone  overboard.  Peterson,  there, 
whose  lookout  it  was,  saw  him  when  the  ship 
struck,  standing  by  the  head  stays,  and  talking  or 


5  TO  UT  HEAR  TS.  20 1 

singing  loudly ;  and  he  reckons,  Peterson  does, 
that  the  first  sea  which  boarded  us  and  carried 
aft  the  eleven  who  are  saved,  swept  the  captain 
overboard  with  the  rush  of  falling  spars." 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  we  are  ?  "  inquired 
Bentley. 

"  That's  hard  to  tell  exactly,  but  somewhere 
between  Hatteras  and  Cape  Henry.  You  see. 
Colonel,  this  is  a  bad  beach  along  here,  and  what 
with  our  over-running  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  and 
the  gale,  and  the  unsartin  reckoning,  we  may  be 
anywhere  along  the  coast." 

It  was  characteristic  of  CofiSn,  that  in  this  par- 
tial enumeration  of  the  causes  which  had  led  to 
the  wreck,  he  did  not  include  the  most  potent ; 
for  with  the  uncertain  position  of  the  ship,  the 
Captain's  decision  to  stand  North,  instead  of  keep- 
ing off-shore  until  the  gale  broke  or  daylight 
came,  was  the  real  reason  of  the  disaster. 

"  It  is  a  bad  stretch  of  sand  all  along  from  the 
Virginia  Capes  to  Winyah  Bay,"  Coffin  con- 
tinued. "  We  may  be  on  the  outer  shoals  of  Hat- 
teras, or,  if  we  got  more  northing  in  the  Stream, 
we  may  have  struck  on  the  Wimbles,  off  Chicka- 
micomico,  and  then,  again,  we  may  be  plum  on 
the  beach  off  Kitty-hawk,  for  right  there  you 
carry  deep  water  straight  up  to  the  shoals  with- 
out warning." 


202 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


"The  gale  seems  moderating,"  suggested  Bent- 
ley. 

"  Yes,  the  wind  is  less,  but  the  breakers  are 
doing  the  work.  I  haven't  lost  my  courage,  but 
it  looks.  Colonel,  as  if  we  are  pretty  well  done 
for.  There  aren't  a  dozen  people  to  a  quarter 
section  on  this  beach,  and  Congress  says  the 
nation  is  too  poor  to  keep  the  Life-Saving  Station 
open  all  the  year  round.  The  country  ain'-t  got 
surplus  enough  for  that,  and  a  few  sailors,  more 
or  less,  don't  count  as  voters.  There's  not  a 
harbor  in  the  whole  stretch,  from  the  Inlet  to 
Chesapeake  Bay,  a  hundred  miles  as  the  crow 
flies." 

"  How  many  boats  are  left  ?  "  Bentley  asked, 
because  he  knew  so  far  as  human  life  might  find 
a  refuge,  that  the  ship  could  not  hold  out  long 
after  daylight ;  certainly  not  with  any  assurance 
which  could  tempt  them  to  await  a  hope  of  relief 
from  the  shore.  The  bowsprit  had  disappeared, 
and  the  foremast  was  so  sure  to  go  by  the  board, 
that  the  destruction  caused  by  its  ripping  and 
tearing  would  give  an  entrance  to  the  breakers 
which  nothing  could  resist.  It  was  useless  and 
impossible  now  to  cut  the  mast  away,  and  their 
only  hope  lay  in  speedy  escape. 

"There  are  two  boats,"  answered  Coffin,  "both 
good  ones,  even  for  this  weather,  but  we  can't 


STOUT  HEARTS.  203 

launch  them  with  this  sea,  making  a  clean  breach 
over  us,  though,  by  good  luck,  all  that  'ere  top- 
hamper  has  fallen  to  wind'ard." 

"  If  the  ship  would  hold  till  daylight,  the  shore 
people  might  do  something,  but^both  are  poor 
chances,"  said  Bentley,  "  and  I  believe  our  only 
hope  is  in  the  boats.  But,"  he  added,  quickly, 
"  you  are  in  command,  and  I  will  obey  your 
order  cheerfully." 

Coffin  thought  a  moment,  slipped  down  to  lee- 
ward, went  a  little  way  up  the  mizzen  rigging,  and 
looked  at  the  sea.  Bentley  followed  him  to  the 
rail,  and  when  the  mate  descended,  showed  where 
the  ship  made  a  lee  amidships,  and  urged  that 
with  good  luck  the  boats  might  be  gotten  over- 
board safely. 

Coffin  answered,  "  You're  right,  Colonel ;  it  is 
our  only  hope ;  the  old  barky  is  going  to  pieces 
fast,  so  we'll  have  a  try  at  the  boats.  There  is  a 
fighting  chance  and  we're  just  the  ones  to  take  it." 

Bentley  watched  admiringly  the  hardy  seaman 
as  he  pulled  himself  by  the  life-line  to  the  bul- 
warks, where  the  men  were  gathered ;  and 
through  the  gloom,  as  the  breakers  retreated  to 
gather  strength  for  another  sally,  he  saw  the 
group  quickly,  and  with  new  hope,  rush  and 
slide  to  leeward  of  the  house  on  which  the 
boats  were  stowed.     Though  a  hazardous  duty. 


204 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


it  was  undertaken  cheerfully,  for  as  Bentley  de- 
scended to  the  main  deck,  he  heard  the  ringing 
cheers  of  the  sailors,  as  they  worked  with  a  will 
under  Coffin's  skillful  direction. 

When  Bentley  entered  the  cabin,  Lorrimore 
was  sitting  upon  the  table  perfectly  self-possessed 
and  stolidly  whittling  a  piece  of  rounded  wood, 
— the  plug  of  a  water-breaker  apparently,  which 
must  have  been  washed  aft  in  the  litter  floating 
about  the  deck. 

"  A  cool  hand  that,"  thought  Bentley,  "and,  I 
am  afraid,  an  unfeeling  one."  He  said  aloud, 
"  Mr.  Lorrimore  we  are  going  to  abandon  the 
ship  and  the  crew  are  trying  to  launch  the  boats. 
You  had  better  make,  at  once,  the  preparations 
you  think  necessary,  and  then  stand  by  to  lee- 
ward." 

Lorrimore  raised  his  eyes  from  the  shining 
knife  blade,  though  without-  stopping  his  work 
upon  the  curious  little  block,  and  answered,  cour- 
teously, "  Thank  you,  I  am  ready  now." 

Bentley  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  in  doubt, 
before  he  entered  the  room  where  the  dead  man 
lay.  In  her  awful  vigil  Isabel's  head  rested 
upon  the  bosom  of  her  father,  and  she  was  still 
sobbing  with  a  grief  which  found  its  only  expres- 
sion in  low  moans.  He  lifted  her  gently  to  the 
camp  chair  standing  by  the  bedside,  and  said, 


STO  UT  HEAR  TS.  205 

"  God  help  and  pity  you,  for  I  know  what  this 
all  must  mean ;  but  he  is  happier  and  better,  for 
all  is  over  for  him,  all  the  strife  and  fear, — all  the 
trouble  and  pain.  He  has  found  the  peace  which 
all  our  lives  must  seek." 

She  could  not  answer,  though  his  pity  and 
consolation  were  her  only  refuge  now.  "  There 
is  a  duty  you  owe  to  him  and  to  yourself,  for  you 
are  powerless  here,"  he  pleaded.  "  Will  you  not 
come  with  me  ?  You  may  trust  me,  for  in  his 
last  moments  I  promised  to  save  you  at  all  sacri- 
fices. Help  me  keep  my  word  with  the  dead — 
with  your  dead  and  mine;  for  with  his  dying 
words,  almost,  he  gave  you  to  me,  and  here  with 
the  same  death  everywhere  about  us,  I  can  tell 
you  that — I  love  you." 

She  rose  from  the  chair,  and,  lifting  the  shroud- 
ing sheet,  kissed  the  pale  lips,  and  then  in  silence 
went  into  the  cabin  with  him.  As  he  was  leav- 
ing her,  Bentley  said, — 

"  The  ship  is  stranded — where,  no  one  knows, 
but  if  we  can  launch  the  boats  we  are  not  without 
hope.  You  will  be  brave,  and,  for  his  sake,  bear 
up  in  these  awful  moments.  If  we  are  to  die,  it 
shall  be  together ;  if  we  are  to  live,  let  it  be  my 
right  to  save  you." 

But  she  made  no  answer,  for  his  words  gave 
her  no   realization    of  the   perils   encompassing 


2o6  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

them.  All  she  knew  was  the  agony  of  her  father's 
loss  and  the  utter  loneliness  to  which  even  death 
could  add  no  new  terrors.  Unconsciously  her 
head  fell  upon  his  shoulders,  and,  in  her  need  for 
help  and  strength,  she  wept  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"  He  was  so  good  to  me,  so  good  to  me,"  she 
sobbed,  "and  now  he  will  never  know  how  much 
I  loved  him." 

Bentley  encouraged  her  with  tender  words, 
told  what  preparations  she  should  make  for  the 
desperate  trial  before  them,  and,  leaving  her,  went 
to  Lorrimore,  who  had  now  entered  his  room. 

"  I  will  put  Miss  Marsden  in  your  care,  Mr. 
Lorrimore,  until  I  return.  The  ship's  danger  is 
very  great,  so  great,  that  this  may  be  our  last 
night  on  earth  ;  but  whatever  the  peril  may  be, 
it  is  not  immediate.  Can  you  trust  me  not  to 
desert  you,  and  will  you  remain  here  unquestion- 
ingly  until  I  return  ?  " 

Lorrimore  twirled  in  his  thin  fingers  the  little 
plug  he  had  shaped  so  idly,  and  answered,  "  My 
trust  in  you,  Colonel  Bentley,  is  perfect,  and  I 
shall  remain  here  until  your  return." 

Lorrimore  blew  vacantly  through  the  hole  he 
had  made  in  the  centre  of  his  piece  of  whittled 
wood,  and  twirled  it  by  the  strings,  which,  with 
curious  interlacings,  he  had  fitted  in  grooves  about 


STOUT  HEARTS. 


207 


its  edges.  He  seemed  to  do  this  as  if  his  mind 
were  wandering  with  aimless  purpose,  though  sud- 
denly he  added,  as  Bentley  left  him, "  And  here  is 
my  hand  upon  the  promise.  Trust  me,  and,  if  your 
services  are  needed  elsewhere,  do  not  come  until 
the  last  moment.  It  will  be  dreary  watching  for 
her,  alone,  with  the  dead." 

Lorrimore's  hand  was  cold,  and  it  trembled  in 
Bentley 's  grasp,  though  these  were  the  only  signs 
which  showed  he  knew  the  misery  surrounding 
them.  He  waved  a  salute  to  Bentley,  as  the  lat- 
ter was  leaving,  and,  then,  as  proof  of  his  pledge, 
crossed  the  cabin,  and  sat  by  Isabel's  closed  door. 

When  Bentley  reached  the  deck,  he  found  that 
the  work  of  destruction  was  even  more  rapid  than 
he  had  feared.  The  men  were  working  cheer- 
ily at  the  boats,  and  had  rigged  a  couple  of  small 
tackles,  which  assisted  materially.  Bentley  joined 
them,  and,  with  willing  hands,  and  words  of 
sailor  comfort  and  encouragement,  put  new  life 
into  the  undaunted,  though  weary  seamen.  Upon 
inquiry,  he  learned  that  Coffin  had  detailed  the 
people  for  their  stations — the  second  mate  and 
four  of  the  crew  being  ordered  to  go  in  the 
whaleboat,  and  the  rest  in  the  large  life-boat  with 
himself  As  the  former  was  lowered  to  the  water 
and  manned.  Coffin  cried, — 

"  Now  Niles,  don't  forget,  when  you  get  clear 


2o8  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

of  the  ship,  pull  dead  to  leeward,  and,  if  you  land, 
wave  a  lantern ;  there's  one  stowed  there,  in  the 
stern  sheets." 

At  this  moment,  a  wave  struck  the  ship,  and 
lifted  the  boat  almost  even  with  the  rail ;  as  it 
was  falling  into  the  trough,  a  sharp  knife  severed 
the  line  which  held  it,  but  not  before  a  figure, 
unrecognized  by  any  one,  was  seen  to  leap  from 
the  bulwarks.  Who  it  was,  no  one  could  tell  in 
the  darkness.  As  the  next  sea  caught  the  surg- 
ing boat  upon  the  upward  curve,  it  rose  again, 
but,  almost  at  the  mizzen  rigging,  and,  then,  as  if 
by  enchantment,  rushed  into  the  gloom  and  was 
gone. 

It  was  now  after  three  o'clock,  and  the  heavens 
were  as  black,  and  the  gale  blew  as  hard  as  at 
midnight,  but  the  wind  was  steadier,  and  had 
shifted  more  off  shore.  When  Bentley  again 
climbed  the  rigging,  he  saw,  in  the  west,  one 
faint,  tremulous  star,  and,  as  he  gazed  intently 
through  the  darkness,  he  made  out,  astern,  the 
blackness  of  a  bulk,  of  a  rounded  mass,  which  was 
different,  in  a  faint  degree,  to  the  flat  background 
of  gloomy  sky ;  and,  once,  when  the  roar  of  gale 
and  sea  were  stilled  for  an  instant,  he  heard  the 
echoing  boom  of  waves  beating  somewhere  upon 
a  hard  barrier  of  sandy  beach.  As  he  came  out 
of  the  rigging,  Coffin  was  awaiting  him. 


STO UT  HEAR TS.  200 

"  I  believe  there's  land  of  some  sort  astern  ;  I 
thought,  too,  I  saw  a  high  sand-hill,  but  it  may 
have  been  my  imagination." 

"  Where  away  was  it  ?  "  asked  Coffin. 

"  All  around  the  ship,  astern — the  hill  broad 
off  the  starboard  quarter." 

"  Well,  we  will  pull  for  it,"  Coffin  replied. 
"And,  I  say,  Colonel,  as  the  boat  is  nearly  ready, 
will  you  bring  the  others." 

Bentley  entered  the  cabin,  and  called  to  Lor- 
rimore.  He  waited  a  moment,  and,  receiving  no 
answer,  called  again.  But  Lorrimore  had  disap- 
peared, and,  as  he  turned  impatiently  to  Isabel's 
room,  the  door  was  quickly  opened  and  closed. 
As  she  came  toward  him,  Isabel  hesitated,  crossed 
to  her  father's  door,  and,  standing  there  for  a  mo- 
ment, lifted  her  hands,  as  if  in  an  agony  of  sup- 
plication. 

She  was  closely  veiled,  and  wrapped  in  a 
hooded  water-proof,  and  as  Bentley  took  her 
hand  it  was  icy-cold,  and  to  his  words  of  en- 
dearment she  could  trust  herself  to  give  no  an- 
swer. Her  head  was  bent,  her  veil  was  tightly 
drawn,  and,  as  they  struggled  through  the  water 
surging  upon  the  decks,  she  trembled  with  an 
emotion  which  made  her  almost  helpless.  The 
sea  had  subsided  a  little  to  leeward,  and  the 
staunch  boat,  by  careful  management,  rode  safely 
14 


2IO  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

alongside.  Willing  hands  lowered  Isabel  from 
the  rail,  but,  as  Bentley  was  about  to  follow,  he 
stopped,  and,  with  a  sudden  fear,  exclaimed, — 

"  Where  is  Lorrimore  ? " 

There  was  no  answer  at  first,  and  then,  the 
sailor  who  had  cut  the  bow-line  of  the  whale- 
boat,  said  he  had  seen  Lorrimore  swinging  him- 
self into  the  second  mate's  boat,  just  as  it  shoved 
clear  of  the  ship. 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  Bentley, — "sure  it 
was  Mr.  Lorrimore? — for  this  desertion  would 
be  murder." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  asserted  the  man,  "  the  gentleman, 
he  come  aft  on  a  run,  grabbed  the  painter,  and, 
as  he  jumped,  sir,  landed  all  in  a  heap  in  the  fore 
sheets,  sir." 

The  rest  of  the  crew  took  their  places.  Coffin, 
last  of  all,  and,  when  the  boat  rose  upon  the  next 
wave,  the  line  was  cut,  ready  oars  pulled  clear  of 
the  vessel,  and,  as  the  long  swell  swept  onward, 
the  frail  craft  was  folded  in  the  arms  of  the  angry 
night.  As  it  fell  into  the  hollow,  abreast  of  the 
mizzen  chains,  Bentley  thought  he  heard  a  human 
voice  crying  for  help.  But  he  reasoned  he  must 
be  mistaken,  for  there  was  no  one  left  on  board, 
and  Lorrimore  had  clearly  betrayed  his  trust,  at  a 
moment  when  a  craven  only  would  have  thought 
of  himself. 


STOUT  HEARTS. 


211 


Steadily  and  surely,  the  men  pulled  to  leeward, 
the  undaunted  Coffin  grasping  his  steering  oar  with 
the  sweep  and  grip  he  had  learned  in  his  whaling 
days.  The  waves  were  black  and  silent,  though 
at  times,  a  crest,  suddenly  bitten  by  the  wind, 
would  curl  viciously  into  the  boat,  and  blind  the 
rowers  with  spray. 

At  first,  Coffin  steered  by  the  star,  which  shone 
brightly  in  the  west,  but  he  soon  shouted  with 
his  old-time  chuckle, — 

"  It's  all  right,  lads ;  there's  the  shore,  and  Niles 
is  waving  his  lantern.  Cheerily  now,  it's  only  a 
long  pull  and  a  strong  one,  and  we'll  land  the 
lady  yet," 

Bentley  had  spoken  no  word  to  the  grief- 
stricken  woman  beside  him,  nor  had  she  voiced 
a  fear,  or  shown  her  sore  distress.  He  had 
watched  with  eager  eyes,  thinking  only  of  her 
safety,  the  darkened  wall  ahead,  and,  when  he 
saw,  searing  like  lines  of  fire,  the  crescent  of 
white  beach  and  the  circling  sweep  of  the  lan- 
tern, he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  whispered 
that  the  crisis  had  come.  Tightening  the  straps 
of  her  life-preserver,  he  said,  tenderly, — 

"  Remember,  cling  to  me ;  we  will  live  or  die 
together." 

She  did  not  answer,  but,  with  bent  head,  leaned 
upon  the  gunwale,  as  if  saying  a  prayer. 


212  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

The  narrow  crescent  broadened  into  a  curve  of 
foam  and  billow,  and  the  roar  of  the  surf  echoed 
seaward,  with  the  thunderous  reverberations  of 
storm-clouds  penned  in  resounding  hills. 

"Steadily,  lads,  steadily,"  cried  Coffin,  quickly, 
but  with  no  tremor  in  his  tone.  "  Mind  your 
oars,  there,  for'ad.  Steadily,  my  sons,  and  stand 
by  to  back,  when  I  pass  the  word." 

A  mighty  wave,  hungry  for  the  beach,  lifted 
the  boat  on  its  unbroken  crest,  lapped  it  joyously, 
sang  of  the  rest  and  peace  ahead,  lured  it  swiftly 
and  surely  shoreward,  and  then  with  cruel  sport 
would  have  dashed  it  upon  the  beach,  had  not 
Coffin  checked  its  onward  rush,  as  the  billow's 
crown  became  a  dark  and  broken  hollow  and  its 
base  a  cataract  of  foam  and  sand.  But  there 
could  be  no  hesitation  now,  and,  with  a  last  cheery 
word  of  comfort,  the  boat  dashed  landward  upon 
the  incoming  wave,  steered  straight  to  the  point 
where  the  rope-joined  lines  of  rescuers  stood 
almost  in  the  tumble  of  breakers  and  the  drag  of 
undertow  to  receive  them. 

In  clarion  voice,  which  rang  as  a  bugle  above 
the  bursting  sea.  Coffin  cried, — 

"  Stand  by !  now  lads — jump."  As  the  crew 
sprang  clear,  the  steering  oar  broke  like  a  sapless 
reed  dried  in  winter's  frost,  the  comb  of  the  wave 
turned  the  bow  to  the  left  and  upward,  and  as  the 


STOUT  HEARTS.  2 1 3 

receding  water  rushed  brokenly  seaward,  the 
boat  capsized  and  its  hapless  occupants  were 
struggling  with  the  unreasoning  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  in  the  surf. 

All  save  Bentley  and  Coffin ;  and  when  their 
rescuers  afterward  looked  at  them  lying  on  the 
shore,  they  saw  the  wrists  of  the  two  insensible 
men  were  red  and  bleeding  with  salt-steeped 
wounds,  for  the  nails  of  tlie  woman  had  clung  as 
acid  bites  and  scars. 

Upon  recovering  consciousness,  Bentley  found 
himself  lying  upon  a  ridge  of  sand  which  crowned 
the  isthmus.  He  was  powerless  to  move,  though 
as  the  flooding  blood  came  back  to  heart  and 
brain,  his  first  thought  was  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

He  heard  the  voices  of  the  fishermen  drag- 
ging further  up  the  beach  the  life-boat  taken  by 
right  of  might  from  the  locked  doors  of  the 
deserted  station  ;  he  saw  the  moving  figures  of 
men,  and,  as  he  looked  upward,  he  beheld  a 
waning  moon  shining  through  a  rent  veil  of 
ragged  clouds,  the  light  of  many  stars,  and,  to 
the  northward,  the  flying  masses  of  scud  and 
storm  bank  ;  above  all,  he  heard  the  measured 
beating  of  the  breakers,  and  the  long  and  sibilant 
swish  of  the  undertow,  dragging  seaward  the 
waters  which  tried  impotently  to  clasp  the  land 
they  had  sought  with  such  longing. 


214 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


Presently  strange  faces,  but  friendly  ones,  bent 
over  him,  and  one  was  kneeling  by  Coffin,  chaffing 
his  hands  and  forcing  between  his  teeth  a  draught 
of  spirit.  When  Bentley's  strength  came  back, 
he  lifted  himself,  and  saw  just  beyond  the  flutter- 
ing dress  and  cloak  of  a  woman. 

He  could  not  stand  as  yet,  but,  with  desperate 
effort,  crawled  painfully  to  the  place,  and  took 
the  white,  cold  hands  in  his.  That  she  was  not 
dead,  the  moanings  which  rose  and  fell  with  every 
slow  breath  told,  and  he  thanked  God,  even  for 
this.  The  crescent  moon  sailed  like  a  fairy  shal- 
lop into  a  silvery  sea,  and,  as  the  waves  of  light 
flooded  the  glistening  sand,  Bentley  saw  on  the 
pale  forehead  a  long,  deep  cut,  from  which  the 
blood  was  trickling.  He  raised  her  head  with  a 
touch  as  gentle  as  a  woman's,  and  turning  the 
face  to  the  moonlight,  tenderly  lifted  the  blood- 
sodden  veil  from  the  wound  which  the  keel  of  the 
overturned  boat  had  given. 

The  cool  air  lingered  lovingly  upon  the  lips 
and  eyes,  and,  as  these  moved  feebly,  the  flooding 
glory  of  the  night  filled  her  face, — and  he  saw  not 
Isabel, — ^but  Lorrimore. 

"  Lorrimore  ?"  Bentley  muttered  wildly, — "  Lor- 
rimore ?  what  can  this  be  !  "  And  then  rising  on 
his  knees  and  bending  over  the  dying  man  clad 
in  woman's  guise,  he  cried  in  anguish, — 


STOUT  HEARTS. 


215 


"Tell  me,  for  God's  sake,  Lorrimore — speak, 
man — tell  me,  where  is  Isabel  Marsden  ?  " 

The  pallid  face  flushed,  the  burning  eyes 
turned  to  the  ship  and  the  sea  that  was  rending 
it,  and  the  wan  lips  murmured  faintly, — 

"  There  !  In  the  Halcyon's  cabin,  strapped  to 
her  bed,  and,  God  forgive  me,  I  have  done  it." 

"  In  the  Halcyon's  cabin,"  shrieked  Bentley, 
"  and  left  by  you  to  die.  Then  go  to  the  hell 
which  waits  you." 

His  grasp  tightened  about  the  throat  of  the 
dying  man  as  he  bent  his  knee  upon  the  heav- 
ing breast ;  but  the  tired  hands  faltered,  his  eyes 
saw  only  the  blackness  of  a  new  despair,  and,  as 
the  gray  dawn  was  breaking,  Clifford  Bentley  fell 
insensible  by  the  side  of  the  wretch  he  had  almost 
died  to  save. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DAWN. 

THE  cool  air  revived  Bentley,  and  staggering 
to  his  feet  he  found  that  the  day  had  dawned. 
He  looked  about  in  a  stupor,  and,  as  the  broad 
beams  warmed  into  blue  the  gray  of  the  upper 
sky  and  the  breakers  caught  a  golden  radiance  as 
they  rolled  landward  over  the  shallows,  he  saw 
the  Halcyon,  not  a  mile  from  shore,  still  opposing 
her  bruised  body  to  the  sea. 

The  mizzen  mast  alone  was  standing,  and  not 
only  were  the  bow  timbers  gone,  but  almost  to 
the  waist  the  frames  stood  with  wide  separations, 
which  showed  that  the  ship  was  fast  going  to 
pieces.  Though  the  gale  had  blown  out,  and  the 
fresh  breeze  which  succeeded  had  not  added  to  the 
size  of  the  billows,  the  wind  was  still  strong  enough 
to  keep  the  sea  in  angry  motion. 

There  was  not  a  moment  to  be  lost,  and,  with 

the  strength  of  desperation,  Bentley  staggered  to 

the   beach  where   the  fishermen  were  wheeling 

the   life-boat   to   the    station.      "  Keep   fast   the 

216 


DAWN.  217 

boat,"  he  called  to  them,  "  for  Heaven's  sake, 
keep  fast." 

His  hearers  waited  in  wondor,  as,  panting  for 
breath  and  hoarse  with  excitement,  Bentley  stood 
before  them. 

"  In  that  ship,"  he  cried,  "bound  to  the  bulk- 
heads and  left  to  die  by  a  murderer,  is  a  woman, — 
is  Miss  Marsden.  Dead  or  alive,  we  must  find  her. 
Who  will  go  with  me  ?  " 

Who  ?— all ! 

The  sea-bruised  crew,  the  hardy  fishermen,  man 
and  boy,  strong  and  weak, — not  one  faltered. 
Even  the  dead  awoke  to  life,  it  seemed,  in  the  hope 
of  sharing  in  such  a  deed,  for,  most  pleading  of 
all,  one  voice  sobbed, — 

"  Beyond  any  of  them,  and  first,  take  me." 
It  was  the  haggard  face  of  Waite.  "  Take  me," 
he  repeated,  in  the  incoherency  of  his  clouded 
mind.  Niles  came  to  his  old  commander,  and 
said, — 

"  Not  yet  Captain,  but  by  and  by ;  you  must 
sleep  now." 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  Waite  answered,  " but, 
remember,  I  was  the  last  to  leave  my  ship.  I 
had  to  spring  from  the  bulwarks  to  do  it,  but  I 
was  the  last,  as  the  captain  should  be." 

It  was  he,  who,  rushing  in  delirium  from  his 
hiding  place,  had  been  taken  for  Lorrimore. 


2i8  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

Selecting  the  sturdiest  of  the  volunteers,  the 
boat  was  manned,  and,  with  a  veteran  surfman  at 
the  steering-oar,  sent  safely  seaward.  Its  fight 
was  a  rough  one, — a  struggle  of  brawn  and  brain, 
of  muscle  and  heart,  but  it  was  sure. 

Stroke  by  stroke  the  boat  climbed  the  billows, 
flashing  on  their  spray-lipped  crests,  hidden  in  their 
sombre  hollows, — ^but  always  onward.  The  meas- 
ured strokes  rang  in  rhythm,  the  blades  dipped 
deep,  rose  high,  and  gleamed  with  diamond  clus- 
ters, and  the  steering-oar,  leaving  a  serpent's  trail 
in  the  water,  held,  with  steady  course,  the  shining 
bow  straight  for  the  stranded  vessel.  The  cres- 
cent of  the  shore  faded  into  a  fringe  of  foam,  the 
sand  beach  narrowed  into  a  silver  line,  and,  at 
last,  the  Halcyon,  agleam  in  the  sunlight,  showed 
what  the  gale  had  done. 

Her  bow  pointed  at  an  angle  off  shore,  the 
sudden  shifting  of  the  helm  to  escape  just  as  the 
breakers  were  seen,  having  turned  her  nearly 
eight  points  from  the  course  she  had  been  steer- 
ing. As  the  life-boat  entered  the  pool  of  wreck- 
age, it  was  hauled  alongside  to  leeward  by  a 
trailing  halliard,  and,  when  it  reached  a  place 
amidships,  where  the  bulwarks  were  carried  away 
close  to  the  deck,  Bentley  and  two  of  the  crew 
jumped,  as  the  boat  rose,  into  the  water  still 
flooding  thef  lee  gangway. 


Z>AIVJV.  219 

Bentley  entered  the  cabin  alone. 

All  the  doors  were  open  save  one,  and,  as  he 
slowly  pushed  this  back,  he  saw,  lying  on  the  bed, 
the  unconscious  figure  of  Isabel. 

Was  she  alive  or  dead  ? 

In  her  pallor,  in  the  untrembling  lips,  in  the 
stilled  breathing,  it  seemed  to  be  death.  The 
hair  hung  in  clusters  about  her  face,  and  upon 
her  motionless  bosom  rested  the  rounded  plug 
which  Lorrimore  had  fashioned  so  quietly.  It 
was  bitten  and  ragged  with  splinters,  and  the 
strings  were  wet,  and  red  with  blood ;  the  bleed- 
ing corners  of  the  mouth,  the  bruised  and  torn 
skin,  and  the  purple  indentations  in  her  cheek 
and  neck,  showed  where  the  twine  which  held  it 
had  been  tied  and  twisted. 

Calling  the  two  fishermen,  Bentley  cut  the 
cords  which  bound  Isabel,  and,  then,  as  the  dead 
are  carried,  they  bore  her  to  the  bulwarks,  where 
the  boat,  into  which  they  lowered  her,  was  waiting. 

Bentley  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  said,  resolutely, — 

"  My  lads,  there  is  one  other  duty  to  perform. 
Come  with  me." 

They  entered  the  dismantled  cabin,  and  wrap- 
ping Marsden's  body  in  the  linen  of  the  bed, 
brought  it  to  the  boat,  and  placed  it  by  the  side 
of  the  daughter  he  had  loved  so  well. 


220  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

"Let them  not  be  divided  in  death,"  Bentley 
whispered, — "  if  death  it  be." 

Dropping  clear  of  the  Halcyon,  the  boat  swept 
shoreward,  and,  as  Bentley  turned  for  a  last  look 
at  the  ship  which  had  brought  him  so  much  pain 
and  joy,  a  wave,  mightier  than  its  fellows,  burst 
through  the  weakened  frames  and  rushed  aft  with 
terrible  force.  As  it  receded,  he  saw  the  mizzen- 
mast,  freed  from  its  stays  and  shrouds,  reel  from 
side  to  side,  and,  with  a  sudden  cant  to  leeward, 
plun^  overboard,  carrying  with  it,  or  smashing 
in  the  fall,  the  cabin  he  had  left  a  moment 
before. 

When  the  draught  which  Bentley  forced  be- 
tween the  purple  lips  of  Isabel  warmed  the  flut- 
tering heart,  he  detected  the  faintest  thread  of 
pulse ;  and,  as  they  neared  the  shore,  a  faint  glow 
suffused  her  finger-tips,  the  lips  trembled  with 
the  thrill  of  reviving  animation,  and  the  eyelids 
twitched  nervously  under  the  steady  glare  of  the 
sun. 

Landing  beyond  the  heavier  breakers,  in  a 
little  bight  behind  a  hillock  of  sand,  which,  fur- 
ther out,  curved,  like  a  sickle,  into  an  angry  bar- 
rier of  shoal,  they  carried  the  still  unconscious 
girl  to  the  hut  furthest  from  the  station,  and,  upon 
the  ridge  where  Bentley  had  been  placed,  they 
laid  the  body  of  Marsden.     Next  to  him,  by  a 


DAfFJV.  221 

grim  chance,  was  the  upturned  face  of  Lorri- 
more,  stilled  now  to  all  fear,  for  in  the  compan- 
ionship of  the  solved  mystery  there  was  no 
dread  for  either. 

The  unsparing  labors  of  the  fisherman's  wife 
fanned  the  dull  ember  into  a  gentle  flame  of  life, 
and,  at  last,  when  Isabel  opened  her  eyes,  remem- 
brance dawned,  and,  though  her  voice  refused  to 
utter  the  words  she  wished  to  speak,  her  eyes 
gleamed  with  a  desire  of  questioning,  that  was 
sad  in  its  impotency. 

"  There,  there,  deary,  try  and  sleep,"  said  Mrs. 
Winston,  "everything  is  right;  they  are  all 
saved — all,  except  four  of  the  poor  sailors." 

The  woman  soothed  her  with  words  of  homely 
comfort,  and  as  Isabel  turned  to  the  window, 
where  the  sunshine  brought  into  fantastic  light 
and  shadow  the  rude  timbers  of  the  room,  she 
saw  the  bright  sky,  the  turbulent  sea,  the  silvered 
sand,  the  moving  figures, — and  Bentley.  Then 
she  closed  her  eyes,  and,  overcome  with  fatigue 
and  excitement,  fell  into  a  restless  slumber,  that 
was  filled  with  dreams  of  winds,  and  waves,  and 
death. 

Bentley  sat  with  bowed  head  at  the  door  of 
the  hut  until  Mrs.  Winston  said  the  crisis  was 
over ;  then  he  stole  quietly  up  the  beach,  and, 
falling  upon  his  knees  behind  a  sand  dune,  offered 


222  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

a  thanksgiving  for  the  mercy  which  was  greater 
than  the  sparing  of  his  own  hfe. 

As  he  looked  about  him,  while  he  rested  until 
his  emotions  were  under  control,  he  saw  for  miles 
and  miles  a  sandy  isthmus,  flanked  by  outlying 
islands  and  inner  sounds,  and  broken  by  scattered 
clumps  of  trees,  patches  of  scrub  and  wide  areas 
of  stunted  woodlands.  Everywhere  were  the 
hard  beaches,  the  clusters  of  sand,  the  shallow  in- 
lets, and  the  sea.  To  the  southward  a  conspicu- 
ous hill  arose,  and,  beyond,  long  stretches  of  bald 
beaches  glistened  on  barren  wastes ;  to  the  west- 
ward was  a  wooded  island  fringed  by  marsh  and 
shoaling  water,  which  the  tides  joined  by  slues 
and  sedgy  inlets,  and  framing  all  were  the  blue 
hills  of  the  broken  mainland. 

For  miles  the  shore  was  littered  with  wreck- 
age, and  in  the  distant  waves  derelict  spars  and 
timbers  were  taking  the  glistening  sunlight  on 
their  sides.  This  was  the  shore  of  North  Caro- 
lina, as  he  had  learned,  and  the  hill  was  Nag's 
Head,  the  dreariest  and  saddest  of  all  the  places 
which  await  mariners  upon  our  long  stretch  of 
southern  coast-line. 

When  Bentley  came  to  the  fishermen  and  sailors, 
unconscious  of  the  loving  and  grateful  eyes  look- 
ing out  at  him  from  the  hut,  he  saw  that  the  bodies 
had  been  gathered  in  one  spot,     Winston  said, — 


DAWN.  223 

**  Five  in  all,  Colonel,  not  countin'  him  as  we 
uns  brought  ashore.  Hadn't  we  better  bury 
them  ?  "  he  added,  pointing  to  a  little  enclosure 
back  of  the  shore,  where  in  a  rude  cemetery  the 
dead  and  often  nameless  sailors  cast  up  by  the 
sea  were  laid  to  rest  within  touch  of  its  spray 
and  breeze. 

"  Yes,  and  this  one  first,"  answered  Bentley, 
indicating  Lorrimore ;  "  let  us  pity  him  who 
failed  to  pity  us." 

"  Hadn't  my  wife  better  look  out  for  her,"  sug- 
gested Winston,  who  had  heard  the  story  imper- 
fectly. 

"  No,  he  is  a  man  dressed  as  a  woman,  and 
God  forgive  him  for  some  wicked  purposes  of  his 
own." 

Coffin  had  recovered  his  strength  and  was 
devoting  himself  to  Captain  Waite,  who  clung  to 
the  mate  as  a  child  does  to  its  mother.  Niles 
and  some  of  the  crew  were  busy  making  rude 
tallies  by  which  the  dead  could  be  recognized 
hereafter,  and  the  carpenter  and  the  others  were 
fashioning  rough  boxes  for  the  bodies. 

Bentley  took  his  old  place  for  a  moment  out- 
side of  Isabel's  door,  and  when  he  learned  she 
was  sleeping  easily,  followed  the  men  who  were 
carrying  the  dead  to  the  God's  acre  beyond.  As 
he  stood  on  the  ridge  looking  at  the  crumbling 


224 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


wreck  of  the  Halcyon,  Winston  came  to  him 
hurriedly,  and  said, — 

"  Colonel,  if  my  wife  can  be  spared  from  the 
young  lady,  she  had  better  go  over  to  the  ceme- 
tery and  look  out  for  the  one  you  told  we  uns 
to  bury  first." 

"Your  wife!     Why?" 

"  Well  it's  more  her  business  than  mine, — more 
natural  like." 

"  More  her  business  than  yours  ?  "  inquired 
Bentley,  wondering  at  this  strange  persistency. 

"  Yes,  Colonel,  that  'ere  man  is  a  woman,  after 
all." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


DAYLIGHT. 


TWO  days  afterward  Isabel  was  carried  to  the 
mainland,  and  in  a  fortnight  she  was  able  to 
sit  upon  the  wide  veranda  of  a  hospitable  manor 
house,  watching  the  gulls  circling  in  the  Sounds 
and  the  fish  leaping  from  the  shining  waters. 
Health  and  strength  came  so  slowly  that  the  be- 
numbed mental  processes  took  up  lazily  their  old 
orbits  of  action  ;  and  for  long  hours  of  the  per- 
fect days  she  would  try  with  vain  endeavor  to 
put  together,  piece  by  piece,  the  facts  which 
made  the  mosaic  of  these  later  days  of  trial. 

She  could  recall  nothing  of  her  rescue,  nor  of 
the  first  shock  of  the  wreck,  for  with  sad  itera- 
tion her  memory  ebbed  and  flowed  about  the 
misery  of  her  father's  death  and  the  horror  of  the 
crime  which  had  left  her  to  die  alone  in  the 
stranded  vessel.  Beyond  these  two  truths,  all  else 
was  formless  and  dim  in  the  mist  of  dreams. 

With  the  vivifying  balsam  of  piny  autumn 
woods  and  of  salt  winds  transmuted  in  the  alem- 
15  225 


226  A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

bic  of  barrier  trees,  health  breathed  upon  her, 
and  little  by  little,  in  responsive  gratitude  for 
nights  of  restful  sleep  and  days  of  peaceful  idle- 
ness, the  mind  awakened  to  a  clearer  knowledge 
of  the  past. 

Bentley  had  secured  quarters  in  a  farmhouse 
near  the  shore,  and  day  by  day  brought  her  the 
simple  gossip  of  those  honest  people,  and,  with 
every  tender  device  love  could  invent,  sought  to 
lead  her,  by  quiet  roads,  into  the  lands  of  happi- 
ness she  had  known  of  old.  He  never  spoke  of 
the  wreck,  nor  of  her  peril,  but  of  the  days  when 
first  they  met. 

In  October,  when  the  blue  hills  of  the  old 
North  State  were  bright  with  the  gold  and 
ruby  of  the  leaves,  and  the  cool,  star-gemmed 
nights  gave  a  more  cheerful  glow  to  the  pine- 
knots  crackling  on  the  flaming  hearths,  she 
made  Bentley  tell  all  he  knew  of  her  father's 
death,  and  of  the  scenes  that  followed.  As  he 
finished,  she  said,  with  tear-filled  eyes, — 

"And  it  was  you  who  saved  me,  and  my 
dreams  were  true  ?  " 

He  lifted  her  white,  blue-veined  hand,  and 
kissing  it,  answered, — 

"  No ;  it  was  the  inscrutable  wisdom  of  God 
which  wrought  the  miracle." 

As  soon  as  she  was  strong  enough  for  the 


DAYLIGHT.  22/ 

journey,  they  went,  one  day,  to  the  fatal  isthmus 
across  the  Sounds  of  Croatan  and  Roanoke.  Of 
the  Halcyon,  not  a  timber  was  left,  but  of  the 
gale — who  will  ever  measure  the  agony  of  the 
bruised  lives,  or  the  gratitude  the  rescued  felt  for 
what  these  hardy  fisher  people  had  done. 

Isabel  went  to  the  cemetery  alone,  and  when 
Bentley  joined  her,  he  found  the  graves  strewn 
with  the  wild  flowers  she  had  brought ;  and,  on 
those  of  Marsden  and  of  Lorrimore,  alike,  rested 
the  crosses  of  golden-rod  she  had  wrought  with 
such  loving  care. 

In  after-days,  Bentley  told  her,  that  of  all  the 
gracious  deeds  in  her  life,  none  could  equal  this. 

That  night,  as  they  watched  the  sparkling  logs, 
and  heard  the  mutterings  of  a  rising  gale,  she 
revealed  the  mystery  of  her  last  hours  on  ship- 
board. 

After  Bentley  left  her,  she  had  fallen  wearily 
upon  the  bed,  mindless  of  peril,  and  conscious 
only  of  her  father's  death.  Finally,  recalling  her 
promise,  she  was  about  to  rise,  when  she  heard  her 
door  quickly  closed  and  bolted.  A  firm  grasp  and 
a  cruel  blow  forced  her  upon  the  bed,  and,  in  a 
moment,  two  quick  turns  of  a  thick  cord  lashed 
her  helplessly  to  the  framework  of  the  berth. 
She  tried  to  free  herself,  but  a  noose,  deftly 
slipped  over  her  hands,  drew  them,  extended,  to 


228  ^  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 

the  headboard,  and,  as  she  screamed  for  help,  a 
Httle  rounded  plug,  with  a  breathing-space  bored 
in  its  centre,  was  pushed  into  her  mouth,  and  by 
the  quick  strain  of  looped  strings  was  twisted 
and  tied  back  of  her  head,  and  around  her  neck 
and  arms. 

She  was  bound  and  gagged. 

It  was  a  devilish  deed,  performed  neatly,  and 
with  the  despatch  and  skill  such  as  sailors  and 
surgeons  alone  possess. 

In  the  darkness,  she  could  see  that  a  man  was 
putting  on  her  dress  and  cloak,  and,  then,  the  still- 
ness of  the  room  was  broken  by  a  voice,  which  she 
recognized  as  Lorrimore's.  He  seemed  to  be  in- 
sane, and  with  a  fierce  exultation  which,  in  the  days 
of  convalescence  even,  rang  in  her  ears  with  por- 
tents of  awful  evil  to  come,  cried, — 

"  So — at  last !  at  last ! — and  after  all  this  wait- 
ing !  Do  you  know  me  ?  I  am  Marion  Darling- 
ton, the  woman  whose  life  you  wrecked.  I  have 
followed  you  with  patient  waiting,  ready  for  any 
desperate  chance,  and  fate  has  given  it 'at  last. 
I  have  you  now,  so  sure,  that  the  angels  of 
Heaven  cannot  save  you.  As  Philip  Catlin  died, 
so  shall  you  die ;  as  my  love  was  taken  from 
me,  so  shall  yours  be  lost  to  you.  Once,  in  the 
first  madness  of  despair,  I  tried  to  kill  myself,  but 
the  woman  whom  I  saw  go  to  her  awful  death, 


DA  YLIGHT.  220 

filled  me  with  horror,  and  I  fled,  only  to  plan  and 
plan,  through  sleepless  nights,  how  I  might  reach 
you. 

"There  lies  the  dead  body  of  the  man  who 
spurned  me  for  you ;  he  wanted  you  only  for 
himself  in  life,  and  he  shall  have  you  in  death. 
And  such  a  death  ! — almost  as  sad  and  hopeless, 
as  my  poor  life  has  been.  Outside,  with  no 
thought  but  of  you,  is  the  man  who  would  save 
you  at  the  peril  of  his  life — he,  he,  will  rescue 
me,  and  leave  you  to  a  fate  none  \\;ill  know  in  all 
time.  Should  I  reach  the  shore  alive,  who  will 
tell  that  I  came  in  your  disguise,  when,  in  a  mo- 
ment,— where  the  night  is  dark,  and  the  current 
strong — these  clothes,  cast  to  the  sea,  will  leave 
Lorrimore  saved,  and  Isabel  Marsden  gone,  as 
if  she  had  never  been.  Listen ! — do  you  hear 
him — it  is  Bentley,  calling  for  Lorrimore,  and 
awaiting  you.  Ah !  how  you  would  sue  for 
pity,  could  you  speak.  But  did  he  who  is  dead 
— did  any  one  pity  me  ?  No  ! — and  now  I  shall 
leave  you  with  the  sea,  that  pities  none ; — leave 
you  dying  with  your  dead,  and  to  the  mercy  I 
have  always  known." 

Isabel  remembered  but  little  more.  After  the 
first  agony  of  fear  had  passed,  she  freed  her  lips, 
by  a  supreme  effort,  from  the  plug,  and  screamed  for 
help,  but  when  this  was  unanswered,  she  fell  into 


230 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


a  stupor  which  trembled  for  hours  on  the  border- 
lands of  eternity.  It  was  the  echo  of  this  pitiful 
cry  which  Bentley  heard,  as  he  bent  to  soothe 
the  shrinking  form  beside  him  in  the  boat.  And 
she  who  heard  it,  in  joy,  knew  not  that  it  was  the 
voice  of  her  sister,  calling  as  one  deserted  in  the 
wilderness. 

In  the  spring  Isabel  and  Bentley  were  married, 
but  not  until  Marsden  had  been  laid  at  rest  in  the 
peaceful  cemetery  of  the  village  from  which  he  had 
departed  with  boyish  ambition  to  make  the  world 
his  own.  Catlin,  too,  was  buried  in  his  old  home, 
just  outside  the  circle  where  rest  those  who  died 
for  their  country  during  the  great  war  in  which 
he  had  done  his  part  so  well. 

To  that  distant  home  in  California,  Bentley 
accompanied  the  body  of  the  poor  girl  whose  life 
had  been  without  savor  and  grace ;  and  as  it  was 
laid,  with  prayers  and  tears  from  friends  of  old, 
by  the  side  of  the  mother,  whose  only  fault  it 
was  to  have  loved  so  blindly,  no  one  save  the 
priest  knew,  that  beneath  the  stone  which  marked 
the  resting-place  of  Maria  del  Gado  slept  she  who 
had  been  called  Marion  Darlington. 

But  as  the  twilight  lay  like  a  benediction  upon 
the  quaint  cemetery,  a  bronzed  and  bearded  gen- 
tleman knelt  in  the  sanctified  ground  and  placed 
upon  the  fresh  earth  a  wreath  of  immortelles  in 


DAYLIGHT.  23 1 

memory  of  the  love  that  Pedro  de  Saldo  cher- 
ished for  the  unwedded  bride  of  his  youth. 

Bentley  found  awaiting  him  upon  his  return 
two  letters ;  one  from  Coffin  inviting  him  to  the 
launching  of  the  new  Halcyon,  of  which  he  was 
to  be  the  master,  and  promising  that  he  would 
get  a  rare  welcome  from  Captain  Waite,  who  had 
given  up  the  sea  and  was  too  hard  at  work  selling 
fish  and  lumber  to  bother  his  brain  with  cob- 
webs and  spun-yarn-twistings  about  spirits. 

The  other  letter  was  from  Girard. 

It  began  with  many  felicitations  after  the  French 
official  manner,  and  was  most  formal  and  precise 
until  it  reached  the  pith  of  the  story  where  it  warmed 
into  a  friendly  blaze  of  semi-professional  confi- 
dence. It  told  in  detail  the  search  for  Camille 
Desmoulins,  and  how,  at  last,  the  mystery  had 
been  solved  by  the  confession  of  an  attendant  at 
the  Morgue,  whom  Girard  had  hunted  down. 
Hoffman,  sparing  neither  time  nor  money  in  the 
search,  one  day  recalled  old  Mother  Blinder, 
the  chiffoniere,  who  had  reared  the  missing 
woman. 

"  So,  so,"  said  the  hag  in  her  hovel  on  Mont- 
martre,  "  that  pretty  butterfly  is  gone.  Where  is 
my  amber  heart  then  ?  the  one  I  gave  her,  and 
which  was  blessed  by  the  Pope.  Ha  !  ha  !  my 
braves,  that  was  a  rare  joke,  but  she  believed  me, 


232 


A  DESPERATE  CHANCE. 


and  she  swore  never  to  give  it  up.  Find  that, 
and  there  you  will  see  my  sainted  child." 

The  attendant  at  the  Morgue  had  been  arrested 
upon  a  petty  charge,  and  in  his  pocket  the  amber 
amulet  was  found.  He  finally  confessed  that  he 
had  taken  it  from  the  body  of  a  woman,  in  whose 
dress  he  had  slipped  a  handkerchief  belonging  to 
an  American  lady. 

"  What  was  the  bribe  ?     Twenty  napoleons. 

"And  her  other  instructions  ?  That  he  should 
do  this  whenever  a  body  so  disfigured  as  to  be 
unrecognizable  should  be  found. 

"What  was  the  name  upon  the  handkerchief? 
Marion  Darlington,  he  recalled  it,  though  foreign, 
because  he  had  been  paid  to  inform  a  gentleman 
who  lived  in  the  Rue  Chaillot  when  such  a  corpse 
was  brought  from  the  river. 

"The  name  of  this  gentleman?  M.  Clifford 
Bentley ;  and  in  proof  he  submitted  the  address 
in  his  memorandum  book.  We  have  sent  the 
scoundrel  to  Cayenne,  and  Hoffman  has  erected 
over  the  grave  you  bought  a  monument  to  the 
vci^vcioxy  o{  cette  chere  Camille,  to  the  woman  who 
killed  herself  in  a  drunken  frenzy  which  she 
called  love. 

"  And  the  other — the  Madame  Darlington  ; 
she,  surely,  if  alive,  is  plotting  harm,  but  who  can 
tell  when  or  where  it  will  strike — or,  by  my  faith, 


DA  Y LIGHT. 


233 


' — why  ?     For  there,  even  we,  who  Hve  in  mys- 
teries, fail." 

******* 

And  so,  silently  and  irresistibly,  rule  fate  and 
chance,  and  thus  surely  do  our  deeds  decree,  not 
always  the  roads  we  travel,  but  the  goals  we 
reach  at  last.  Fate  and  Chance  men  call  them, 
but  with  what  different  meanings.  Not  for  him 
is  their  truth  made  plain  who  holds  that  human- 
ity evolves  only  in  predetermined  mode,  nor  for 
him  who  denies  that  chance  is  aught  but  the 
effect  of  a  cause  unknow^n.  For  Fate  and  Chance 
are  what  we  make  them,  and  to  each  of  us  is 
every  thought  or  action  sure  to  bring  a  certain 
loss  or  gain. 

Of  the  dead,  pity  Marion  Darlington  above  all ; 
for  in  the  unfolding  light  of  immortality  she  spoke 
those  repentant  words  which  saved  the  tender 
woman  who  placed  upon  the  grave  of  the  sister 
she  knew  not,  the  cross  of  charity  and  of  love. 


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1.25 


Prince  Otto.  A  Ro- 
mance      $1.00 

The  Merry  Men,  and 
Other  Tales  .    .    . 

The  Black  Arrow.  A 
Tale  of  the  Two 
Roses.     Illustrated  . 

New  Arabian  Nights 

The  Dynamiter.  More 
New  Arabian  Nights 

Island  Nights'  Enter- 
tainments. Illus- 
trated       1.25 

The  Wrong  Box  .    .    1.25 

Across  the  Plains. 
With  other  Memories 
and  Essays       .     .     .     1.25 

An    Inland    Voyage. 

With  Frontispiece     .     i.oo 

Travels  with  a  Don- 
key in  the  Cevennes    i.oo 

The  Silverado  Squat- 
ters. With  Frontis- 
piece        I.oo 

Familiar  Studies  of 
rien  and  Books  1.25 

Virginibus  Puerisque, 
and  Other  Papers  .     1.25 

riemories  and  Por- 
traits      1.25 

A  Foot=Note  to  His- 
tory. Eight  Years 
of  Trouble  in  Samoa     1.50 

riemoir  of  Fleeming 
Jenkin 1.25 

The  foregoing  2J  vols., 
i2mo,  in  a  box,     .     .  32.00 


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send  for  Circular. 

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FRANK  R.  STOCKTON'S 
NOVELS  AND   STORIES 


"  There  is  no  more  thoroughly  entertaining  writer 
before  the  public  to-day  than  Mr.  Stockton." 

— Boston  Globe. 


The  Girl  at  Cobhurst  $1.50 

A  Story-teller's 

Pack.      Illustrated  .     1.50 

Mrs.  Cliff's  Yacht. 

Illustrated.       .     .     .     1.50 

The  Adventures  of 
Capt.  Horn    .    .    .     1.50 

A  Chosen  Few.  Short 
Stories.  Cameo  Edi- 
tion.    Portrait      .     .     1.25 

Pomona's  Travels. 

Illustrated  ....     1.50 

Rudder  Orange.  With 
over  100  illustrations 
by  Frost     ....     1.50 

The  Watchmaker's 
Wife,  and  Other 
Stories 1.25 

The  Late  Mrs.  Null   .     1.25 

Rudder  Grange     .    .    1.25 

The  Rudder  Gran- 
gers Abroad,  and 
Other  Stories     .    .    1.25 

The  Lady  or  theTiger, 
and  Other  Stories  .     1.25 

The  Christmas 
Wreck,  and  Other 

Stories 1.25 


The  Bee-Man  of  Orn, 
and  Other  Fanciful 
Tales $1.25 

Amos  Kllbright :  His 
Adscititious  Expe- 
riences. With  other 
Stories 1.25 

Ardis  Claverden    .    .    1.50 

Personally  Con- 
ducted. Illustrated 
by  Pennell  and 
others 2.00 

The  Clocks  of  Ron- 
daine,  and  Other 
Stories.    Illustrated 

The  Floating  Prince, 
and  Other  Fairy 
Tales.      Illustrated 

Roundabout  Rambles 
in  Lands  of  Fact 
and  Fancy.  Illus- 
trated       1.50 

Tales  Out  of  School. 

300  illustrations    .     .     1.50 

A  Jolly   Fellowship. 

Illustrated  ....     1.50 

The  Story  of  Viteau. 
With  illustrations  by 
Birch 1.50 

The  Ting-a-Ling 
Tales.     Illustrated       i.oo 


150 


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» •  •  BY*  •  • 

THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 


^'^  Mr.  Page's  heroines  are  so  delightfully  sweet 
and  attractive  that  no  one' can  help  falling  in  love 
with  themy — Chicago  Times-Herald. 


A  Chronicle  of  Reconstruction.     Illus- 


Red  Rock. 

trated 

Pastime  Stories.     Illustrated 

In  Ole  Virginia.     Marse  Chan,  and  Other  Stories  . 

Tlie  Burial  of  the  Quns 

On  Newfound  River:  A  Story       .        .        .        . 

Elsket,  and  Other  Stories 

The  Old  South.     Essays  Social  and  Political 
New  Uniform  Edition  of  the  above  seven  vols. ,  in  a  box 

The  Old  Gentleman 
of  the  Black  Stock. 

\^Ivory  Scries^    . 

Social  Life  in  Old  Vir- 
ginia Before  the 
War.  With  Illus- 
trations   1.50 

Marse  Chan.  A  Tale 
of  Old  Virginia.  Il- 
lustrated by  Smedley     i.oo 

Meh  Lady.  A  Story 
of  the  War.  Illus- 
trated by  Reinhart     1.00 

Polly.  A  Christmas 
Recollection.  Illus- 
trated by  Castaigne     i.oo 


%    75 


Unc'    Edinburg.      A 

Plantation  Echo.  Il- 
lustrated by  Cline- 
DINST 


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1-25 

1.25 
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$1.00 


"Befo'    de    War." 

Echoes  of  Negro  Dia- 
lect. By  A.  C.  Gor- 
don and  Thomas 
Nelson  Page  .     .     . 

Among  the  Camps,  or 

Young  People's  Sto- 
ries of  the  War.  Il- 
lustrated     .... 


Two  Little  Confeder- 
ates.    Illustrated     . 


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1.50 


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BOOKS  BY 

GEORGE  W.  CABLE 


*'  There  are  few  living  American  writers  who  can 
reproduce  for  us  more  perfectly  than  Mr.  Cable 
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John  riarch,  Southerner $1.50 

Bonaventure.  A  Prose  Pastoral  of  Acadian  Louisiana       125 

Dr.  Sevier 1.25 

The  Grandissimes.     A  Story  of  Creole  Life    .        ,        1.25 

Old  Creole  Days 1.25 

A  New  Edition  of  Mr.  Cable's  Romances  comprising  the 
above  J  vols.,  printed  on  deckle-edge  paper,  gilt  top, 
and  bound  in  sateen  with  full  gilt  design,  now  ready. 
Si  SO  per  volume.      The  set  in  a  box       .         .         .         7.50 

Strong  Hearts 1.25 

Strange  True  Stories  of  Louisiana.  With  illus- 
trations and  fac-simile  reproductions  .         .         1.25 

nadame  Delphine -75 

The  Creoles  of  Louisiana.  Illustrated  from  draw- 
ings by  Pennell 2.50 

The  Silent  South,  together  with  the  Freedman's 
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Harold  Frederics 
Novels 


*'  The  Scribners  have  in  press  a  new  uniform 
edition  of  novels  and  short  stories  by  Mr.  Harold 
Frederic.  This  is  a  well-deserved  tribute  to  the 
abilities  of  a  writer  whose  worth  was  recognized  by 
discerning  critics  long  before  '  The  Damnation  of 
Theron  Ware'  occasioned  something  of  a  furor" 
— New  York  Tribune. 


In  the  Valley 

Seth's  Brother's  Wife     . 

The  Lawton  Girl 

In  the  Sixties 

The  above  four  volumes  are  issued  in  a  handsom 
gilt  top,  deckle  edges,  etc. 


$1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 
e  uniform  binding. 


Marsena,  and  Other  Stories    ,         .         .  $1.00 

The  Copperhead i.oo 

In  the  Valley,     fllustrated  Edition.     With 

1 6  full -page  illustrations  by  Howard  Pyle  1.50 


"  Mr.  Frederic'' s  stories  of  the  wartime  {'In  the 
Sixties')  are  constructed  thoughtfully  and  written 
admirably.     They  are  full  of  feeling" 

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BOOKS   BY 

Richard  Harding  Davis 


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with  strength  and  cleanness,  with  ''grit'  and  re- 
source, with  heroism  and  courage  in  men  :  with 
beauty  and  frankness,  with  freshness  and  youth  in 
women;  and  liking  these  qualities,  he  also  likes 
writing  about  them.  .  .  .  A/r.  Davis  has  the 
dramatic  gift — he  carries  you  along  with  him. 
One  need  not  wish  for  a  better  story  of  action  than 
the   'Soldiers  of  Fortune.^"  —  London  Academy. 


The  Cuban  and  Porto  Rican  Campaigns 

Illustrated   from  photographs  and  draw 

ings  by  eye-witnesses     . 
The   King's  Jackal.     Illustrated  by  C.  D 

Gibson         ..... 
Soldiers  of  Fortune.     Illustrated  by  C.  D 

Gibson         ..... 
Cinderella,  and  Other  Stories 
Qallegher,  and  Other  Stories 
Stories  for  Boys.     Illustrated    . 


$1.50 

1.25 

1.50 
1. 00 
1. 00 
1. 00 


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Books  by  J.  M.  Barrie 


"  Those  who  know  a  piece  of  life  when  they  find  it^ 
and  who  care  for  the  ultimate  charm  of  a  bit  of 
pure  literature,  will  read  and  re-read  Mr,  Barriers 
masterpieces" — Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 


Sentimental  Tommy.  The  Story  of  His 
Boyhood.  Illustrated  by  William  Hath- 
ERELL  ...... 


;i.5o 


Margaret  Ogilvy.       By    Her    Son.      With 

etched  portrait      .  .  .  .         .  1.25 

A  Window    in   Thrums.       Cameo  Edition. 

With  an  etched  frontispiece    .         .         .  1.25 

Auld  Licht  Idylls.      Cameo  Edition.     With 

an  etched  portrait  .         .         .         .  1.25 

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NOVELS   AND  STORIES 

BY 

E,  W.  HORNUNG 


^^  Mr.  Hornung  has  certainly  earned  the  right  to 
be  called  the  Bret  Harte  of  Australia.'^ 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  The  machinery  of  Mr.  Hornung' s  fiction,  once 
in  motion,  is  productive  of  capital  and  vivid  story- 
telling—  stories  that  hold  the  interest  steadily  and 
never  halt  for  lack  of  quickening  incident  and 
lively  adventure.'" — Literature. 


The  Amateur  Cracksman 
Some  Persons  Unknown 
Young  Blood     .... 
My  Lord  Duke 

The  Rogue's  March.     A  Romance 
A  Bride  from   the   Bush.     \Ivory   Series.'\ 
Irralie's    Bushranger.      A   Story   of  Aus- 
tralian Adventure.     \Ivory  Series^ 


^1.25 
1.25 
1.25 
1.25 

1.50 
•75 

•75 


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NOVELS  AND  STORIES  BY  "Q" 

(A.  T.  QUILLER-COUCH) 


"  0/  all  the  short-story  writers,  we  are  inclinea, 
in  many  respects,  to  give  Mr.  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch 
the  first  position^ — N^ew  York  Times. 

"  He  is  highly  esteemed  as  among  t/ie  most  imagi- 
native and  poetic  of  the  late  English  novelists. " 

— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 


The  Splendid  Spur.  Being  Memoirs  of  the  Ad- 
ventures of  Mr.  John  Marvel,  a  servant  of  His 
Late   Majesty    King   Charles    I.,  in    the    years 

1642.43 $1.25 

I  Saw  Three  Ships,  and  Other  Winter  Tales  1.25 

Dead  Man's  Rock.    A  Romance    ....  1.25 

The    Delectable    Duchy.       Stories,   Studies    and 

Sketches 1.25 

The  Blue  Pavilions 1.25 

Noughts    and    Crosses.        Stories,    Studies    and 

Sketches        ........  1.25 

Wandering  Heath.     Stories,  Studies  and  Sketches  i  25 

Adventures  in  Criticism 1.25 

The  Astonishing  History  of  Troy  Town  .  1.25 

The  above  nine  volumes  are  issued  tn  a  new  uniform  edition. 

The  Set,  g  vols.,  in  a  box $11.00 

la.     A  Love  Story.     ^Ivory  Series']    ....  .75 


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UC  SOJTHEBN  REGIONAL  LSRARV  F^OIITV 

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A    000  137  912    2 


